


Phantom Pains

by AllThreeOfThatCrap



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amputation, But It's Only A Couple of F-Bombs, Canon Disabled Character, Canon Related, Chronic Pain, Dean Whump, Deviates From Canon, Disability, Disabled Character, Disabled Dean, Disabled Dean Winchester, Drugs, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Dean, Injury, Injury Recovery, Major Character Injury, Medication, Medicinal Drug Use, My Head Canon Season 10 Season Finale, Pain, Painkillers, Permanent Injury, Physical Disability, Sam Whump, Serious Injuries, Sorry Dean That Arm Has To Come Off, They Should Swear More, Trauma, Traumatic Amputation, Traumatized Dean, Traumatized Dean Winchester, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2018-02-28 15:49:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 48,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2738165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllThreeOfThatCrap/pseuds/AllThreeOfThatCrap
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is demonic again and Sam races to find him, realizing there's no other way to save his brother: that arm has to come off. Could be set any time after Ask Jeeves but I guess before the mid-season finale. *EDIT* and definitely before the mid-season premiere.</p>
<p>"That was my favourite hand Sam!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

     He didn't know how, but the whole world was his arm. Specifically concentrated to just below his right elbow. He could see nothing, he couldn't remember his name. There was a sound though, a roaring white noise that filled everything. And there was his arm. It felt white hot, and there was a thunderous thumping coursing through it three, four, five times a second. Since there was nothing else in the world, he examined it more closely, using what little awareness he had available to him. He concentrated on the spot where he felt the most heat, and where the rib-shaking bass of throbbing drumbeat that filled him seemed to originate from; and instantly, as if transported to this place by an angel, sense and his senses returned to him.

     All in overdrive, they relayed too much information to comprehend, all fighting for attention and screaming for supremacy. The dull roar of sound doubled, trebled in volume and revealed itself to be an inhuman voice, a tortured breath-robbing cry. His vision was filled by the bloodied t-shirted and jeaned torso and hips of someone standing close, threateningly too close to him. Blood languidly spilled from a wound in the stomach in front of him, and his nostrils were filled with the warm scent of it, he could taste it in his mouth. His body told him he was kneeling on something hard, and his sense of balance reported an alarming and uneven spinning sensation, threatening to knock him horizontal at any moment.

     But his arm won the frenzied battle for his attention in the end. The heat in it had been replaced by pain, slicing, tearing, wrenching pain, and with each beat of his frantically pumping heart it intensified impossibly. He looked down at it, and lost his breath and only then, when he ceased to voice it, did he realize the cry had been his own. He began to gasp for air, seemingly in time with each rhythmic explosion of pain he felt, hyperventilating at the sight of his arm, which wasn't his arm, couldn't be his arm, "That's not my fucking arm, because where's the goddamn rest of it? Oh good, there it is." he thought hysterically as he spotted his forearm, the First Blade still in his hand, in an ever expanding puddle of blood on the ground below him.

     Some part of his consciousness registered movement close by, but he was too overwhelmed by it all to defend himself. Everything he was seeing and feeling was quickly becoming too much to bear, his breath now ragged and punctuated by short anguished cries, his vision now veiled by tears brought on by pain and creeping blackness brought on by blood loss. He thought he saw a pair of hands come in to view, reaching for his arm, they were holding something. The last comprehending part of him wanted to yell, to beg "DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME, GET AWAY FROM ME, DON'T TOUCH IT!" but all that escaped him was several sputtering sobs. A familiar voice was speaking inscrutable things now, and the hands were at his bicep, up to something with whatever they held, and he felt like he was moving, forwards, no backwards, maybe it was just falling, and he forgot his name, and the pain was even receding as his once again unseeing eyes closed.

 

* * * * *

 

     Sam was cramped and stiff. It seemed like only minutes ago that he had awoken in the bunker to find Dean gone. When his echoing calls for his brother went unanswered, his pulse had quickened and the unspoken unease he had been feeling for days solidified in to a sinking anchor in his stomach, weighing him down with worry, urgent and near-paralyzing at the same time. The sensations hadn't yet left him. But that had been 10 hours, 600 miles and one phone call ago.

     He had forced himself, nerves jangling, to sit down and steady his breathing before he dialed Dean's number that morning. He hadn't wanted to sound worried if this impromptu disappearing act was just an innocent supply run. And he didn't want to tip his brother off that he was on to him if it wasn't. He had dialed, listened to the the ring, once, twice, three times, and remembered the frisson of fear that had passed through him when the line engaged.

     "Well, good afternoon sleeping beauty."

     Sam had strained to hear anything out of the ordinary in his brother's greeting, but there was nothing he could detect. He made out the familiar sounds of wheels on asphalt and wind buffeting in windows in the background. He had replied, fake-stifling a fake yawn he hoped was convincing, "It's only 10, I'm allowed to sleep in once in awhile aren't I? Tell me you're getting coffee, we're out." It wasn't a lie, they had run out the day before, and it had conveniently let him get right to the point of "where the hell are you?" 

     "Sorry Sammy, you'll have to fend for yourself. I caught a case this morning while you were getting your beauty rest. I'm about two hours out."

     "A case? Why the hell didn't you wake me up?" He had momentarily forgotten his suspicions; his anger wasn't feigned. 

     "Calm down Aurora, I was fricking bored waiting for your ass to get out of bed so I thought I'd check it out. Anyway, I'm on my way back. It didn't pan out, just some run of the mill, messed up, human-on-human violence, not our bag."

     "Aurora?" Sam had calmed slightly after realizing his brother wasn't knee-deep in trouble and questioned the name, confused.

     "Uh, Princess Aurora? Sleeping Beauty? C'mon."

     Sam remembered smiling in spite of himself, and relaxing the white knuckle grip he had on his phone ever so slightly. "Sorry, I guess I didn't take you for a Disney princess..."

     Dean had cut him off, defensive. "Hey, Once Upon a Time is full of hot tiara-wearing chicks. And that Evil Queen?" 

     Sam had heard a whistle come down the line and chuckled, "Ok, fine. Bring coffee."

     "Will do. And Sammy?" He had heard his brother's voice grow serious, and tensed up again. "Nice try, but you gotta stop with this checking up on me crap. I've been gone two hours. And I bet you called me about 5 seconds after you woke up. I know you, and I'm telling you you need to chill out man. I'm fine."

     Indignant, Sam had replied "Well, obviously I shouldn't, since you're off scoping out a case by yourself. Backup, Dean. Number one rule."

     "I would've called you and told you to get your ass up here if it had turned out to be anything hinky. But it wasn't. I figured you were still sleeping, and for God's sake you need it, and I'm not going to wake you up to tell you something that can wait 'til I get back. Do you want me to start making 'everything is a-o.k.' calls to you every hour when we're apart or something?"

     "Actually that's a goddamn great idea." Sam remembered thinking angrily. He had stopped himself and actually replied, "A text, Dean. A note. Something. Then you won't have to deal with my 'gee I wonder if he's dead again' calls that seem to piss you off so much."

     Dean had replied derisively, "Well you didn't appreciate my last note much did you?" There had been a pause, then a grumbling sigh, as if his brother regretted saying it, then, still with a hint of harshness in his voice, "Look, yeah I'm a little pissed. Because I know you worry. That's fine Sammy. I worry too. The difference is I trust you not to go out and do something stupid. And if you're in trouble, I know you'll ask me for help the second you need it. You know better now than to try and go it alone. So do I. Really, I do. But you don't see that." he ended simply.

     Sam remembered being lost for words at that point, but had been saved from coming up with a reply by Dean, who spoke again with an air of "are we done" in his tone. "Look, I'll be back around noon and we can go over all the reasons I can't be trusted o.k.? Make a list and I'll see how I can work on it. And I'll bring your damn coffee." 

     Sam had tried to protest, "Dean, c'mon, it's not..." but his brother had already ended the call.

     He had laid his phone on the table in front of him and stared at it blankly, irresolute. Ever since Dean's first kill in New Canaan, Sam had been on high alert watching for any sign that The Mark was activating again. Dean had known that, and after his initial reluctance to talk about it, Dean had promised, sworn up and down, that he would let Sam know if anything was going on. Sam's hawklike scrutiny had detected nothing, and Dean hadn't said a word, other than to reply "I'm fine." with increasing irritation any time Sam had asked. But Dean was right; ever since their last hunt, since Dean had added another three kills to his total of four since he was back, Sam hadn't trusted him. Sam had caught a fleeting glimpse of a suspect look in his brother's eye, saw a darkness cross Dean's face as quickly as the shadow of a cloud across the highway, and every word spoken, every action his brother had taken since New Canaan was thrown in to doubt in Sam's mind. His worry of the last two days wasn't that Dean had been hiding the effects of The Mark from him, he was worried that Dean had gone already gone full metal demon again, and he was going to disappear from Sam's life without a note, without a trace. 

     Sam had spent the day before wondering if he was about to be stabbed or bludgeoned at any moment, and surreptitiously trying to feel out if anything was off with Dean while also not tipping his hand. He had come up with nothing. Barring a blatant, "Hey want to come help me clean the dungeon?" or a "Does this holy water taste off to you?" Sam knew what he had to do. Holy water to the face, the cuffs, the dungeon, and a whole lot of sanctified blood. But tense and disquieted as he was, Sam didn't want to. Not that day.  He wasn't sure if Dean would survive it again. Or if he, Sam, could really handle it again either. And in the not knowing, there was still the possibility of him being gloriously wrong. So, knowing he was taking a risk, and risking it for his brother and a few more hours of "normal" with him, even if it was false, Sam had put it off. He rationalized it by telling himself more observation was a good thing, and that if Dean really was a demon again he would have been long gone, and he, Sam, would have already been dead. 

     Sam had planted himself, his laptop and several large stacks of books at one of the bunker's tables, keeping his back to the wall and Dean in his periphery. Sam had spent the evening staring at pages of books, unseeing, turning from one to the next at what he hoped was a convincing interval, while Dean puttered around in the other room, drinking several beer, watching a show, cleaning a large cache of their guns and pestering Sam to stop "studying" and come watch a movie. Sam had relented, took the proffered beer, and spent about an hour watching Dean out of the corner of his eye rather than the film. Still having gleaned nothing new, he pretended to be exhausted and had gone to bed behind locked door, moving the rug in his room to just inside the threshold, freshly painted devil's trap on the underside of it. Sam had lain awake, listening to the familiar sounds of his brother moving about the bunker, echoing and distant, keenly aware any time they indicated Dean might be heading his way. "First thing tomorrow." he had told himself. 

     After drifting in and out of sleep for a few hours, he had heard Dean go to his room and shut the door around midnight. Sam had waited for around thirty minutes, then got out of bed and listened at his door for another five. Finally satisfied that the bunker was indeed silent, he had padded in sock feet first to the garage to retrieve a flask of holy water from the Impala's trunk, then to the dungeon (which thankfully they had left open) where he couldn't believe he had left the handcuffs. Shaking his head slightly at this oversight, he had walked in and grabbed them off the table. 

     Unexpectedly, his breath had caught in his throat. Sam had had to steady himself, placing both hands on the rough wooden surface in front of him, and nearly dropped the cuffs and the flask in the process. Head down, he breathed out slowly, then turned to lean heavily against the table. The chair in the middle of the dungeon, which he had avoided looking at on his way in, sat outlined palely in the light from the hall, innocuous and void of any sign of the torture its occupants routinely went through. Just as strongly as his eyes and mind had refrained from considering it, his body had suddenly been drawn to it. Sam had walked over and sat on its edge, leaning forwards, elbows on his knees, hands clasped and wringing in front of him. He had sat like that for a long time, eyes unseeing, minds' eye remembering, occasionally running a hand over his face to settle over his mouth. Lost in troubling thought, preparing for what tomorrow might bring, he abruptly hung his head, then stood, as if given a military order. He had padded back to the table, retrieved the objects he had collected, and walked the halls to return to his room, as silent as a corpse. Locking the door, Sam had fallen in to bed, hands gripping both objects tight under his pillow. He had tried to sleep, and he knew now he had.

     As sure as Sam had been when he had awoken late that morning that Dean's absence was damning proof of his worst suspicions, their conversation had given him pause. Doubt and more than a little bit of guilt had crept in. Should he trust Dean to keep his promise? If Dean was a demon, why stick around for days? If he was running, why answer the phone at all? Why leave Sam alive? If Dean was what Sam thought he was, he was doing a damn good job at hiding it. He had reached out a hand for his phone, then withdrew it, uncertain. A quiet voice in the back of his mind had answered his own questions: "Yes, you should. For intel. To throw you off. Because he knows you'll go to him, every time." 

     He had stood and snatched his phone off the table. "I'll trust you right after this." he had thought desperately. "That I promise." He had cycled through until he found the app both he and Dean had installed on their primary phones, and started it. Waiting for the map to populate, he had stood stock still, breathing rapidly through his nose. "User not found." The words might as well have punched him in the side of the head. He quickly scrolled through the numbers of the other phones, the few that lived in the glovebox that were up to date enough for Sam to have installed the same software on, with the same result: "User not found." "User not found." "USER NOT FOUND."

     Sam had practically sprinted to his laptop and flung the screen open. Loading up another program, he repeated an almost mantric plea in his head: "He didn't find it, he didn't find it, he can't have known, he didn't find it." Another map had appeared on the monitor before his eyes and he had held his breath until the pinging red dot that was his brother, the one and only tenuous connection he had left in the world to Dean, revealed itself. "Thank God." he had choked out, mentally congratulating himself for having the foresight to install a tracking device in the Impala not long after Dean's return. Horrified, Sam had seen that Dean had an almost eight hour head start; he had just crossed the northern border of New Mexico.

     Sam was sure he had never moved so fast in his life. To his room, clothes, cuffs, flask, grab his bag, grab his laptop and phones, to the garage, grab the keys to one of the cars Dean had gotten running in his spare time. It started and he was gone.

     The hours and miles had simultaneously seemed to pass excruciatingly slowly and take no time at all to Sam, singularly focused and forcing himself not to speed too recklessly. He had stopped briefly at the few "Free Wi-fi" signs he had seen at diners and truck stops along the way to check Dean's route and current location. At around 12:30 he had called Dean's unpowered phones to leave a worried message on each; he doubted they would be checked, but on the off chance they were, Dean would know Sam was on to him if he didn't play distressed brother pacing the bunker. That was how he had passed the afternoon and early evening: checking the map and making calls. Several more to Dean, adding increasing agitation to his voice with each message to keep up appearances, and one to Cas, whom Sam didn't expect to answer; Cas was not well. He gave him a quick rundown of the situation and promised to call when he had caught up to Dean. By about 4:30 the dot that was Dean, after a brief thirty minute stop at the Capulin Volcano (Sam had seethed when he saw it, and made a mental note to kill Crowley), had remained in the same location the last two times Sam had checked on it, and he had his final destination.

     So here Sam was, tense and stiff in the front seat of the rental he had hastily selected so Dean wouldn't recognize a car from the bunker, parked in the darkest corner of a three storey parking garage outside an upscale hotel in Las Vegas, New Mexico, staring at the devoid-of-Dean Impala in front of him, willing him to appear, and remembering bitterly how he had gotten here.

  


* * * * *

  


     Consciousness returned to him listlessly, unwillingly, and painfully. He lingered on the edge of nothingness and dim awareness of being, vacillating between the blackness and the muted red, not remembering how many times he had seen each, nor for how long. In the red times, he was vaguely aware of having opened his eyes once before, but his understanding of what his vision had presented him been so limited. At the insistent rolling of what must have been knuckles over and over and over his sternum, his eyes had sprung open and he had taken in a brief flash of an unfamiliar face speaking words at him he didn't really hear or understand, and a hazy inventory of surroundings he couldn't really see or care about, a bed, a curtain, ceiling tiles, a wall. Then he had immediately sunk back in to the blackness.

     This time though, it was different. From blackness to complete awareness in a split second, and it was far, far too much, far too quickly. Waves of burning fire seemed to lick at his entire body, radiating out from his throbbing right arm, scorching every nerve in rhythm with his pounding heart. Tremors of crushing pressure seemed to pin him from above, squeezing his arm and his shoulder and his chest in an ever tightening vice. Gusts of swirling wind seemed to batter him from the inside, buffeting him ceaselessly, dizzying and nauseating him. He kept his eyes clamped shut and clenched his jaw at the weighty, searing pain, dreading to see what could be causing such unfathomable agony in his arm, certain that whatever it was would surely kill him any second. He held his breath, waiting for it to end. But he lived on. And now he had to breathe, and muffled groans began to escape through his clenched teeth, but he couldn't stop them.

     "Dean? Jesus, hang on. Hey! Can we get some help in here?"

     His eyes whipped open at the sound just in time to see Sam disappear out a doorway to his left. He tried to move his head to follow Sam's path away from him, but at that small movement an intense spasm of pain shot up his arm and wracked him from head to toe, and his eyes were forced shut again as his chin twisted up and his back arched slightly off the hospital bed he now realized he was in.

     Trying not to move, and trying to remember to actually breathe, and trying not to cry out or be sick or start bawling his eyes out, the time it took Sam to come back seemed like an eternity of burning, crushing and spinning. He realized his brother was standing over him when Sam spoke, "Hang on, he's right behind me o.k.?" Dean forced his eyes open to look at his brother, whose face was pale and drawn, but a second was all he could manage before the oppressive sensations he was fighting pulled his lids down again. He felt a hand lay across his forehead and another force its way in to his own clenched grasp and squeeze. It seemed like another eternity, fiery, compressing, unsteady, this time with Sam telling him to breathe and that it would be o.k. in a minute, before he heard another presence in the room, this time on his right. He opened his eyes just long enough to see a nurse insert a syringe in to a line hanging by his head, then had to shut them once more. Another agonizing eternity passed but then inch by inch he felt his pain lessen, the fire dampening, the heaviness lifting, the spinning slowing, and inch by inch he could relax his tensed body and was able to breath in more deeply. The muted red blissfully returned, and finally the enveloping blackness.

  


* * * * *

  


     Numbers filled Sam's head. Eleven hours since he had spoken to Dean. Over four since the sun had set around him on the highway, withdrawing its fiery tendrils from the desert sand and leaving an enveloping, almost airless, blackness, in its wake, creeping together to fill the spaces between the long shadows it had so recently thrown. More than three spent waiting for Dean, boring holes in to the Impala's gleaming finish with his focused, laser-like stare, alert to any sound in the closed-in concrete cavern that might be a signal of his brother's return. Three, the number of times he had checked his jacket pockets to ensure the cuffs and the flask were still reassuringly within his reach. Twice he had jerked himself awake after drifting off, the horrible sinking feeling in his gut, that he might have missed Dean's return, enough to keep him alert and on edge for a good forty-five minutes after each heart-pounding awakening. One phone call to Cas as promised, with his exact location, if by some miracle Cas was feeling up to popping in; Sam tried not to think about what would have happened last time if Cas hadn't shown up when he did. And a million, or so it felt like, the times he had gone over, second-guessed, rethought and settled on his plan. He considered hiding in the backseat of the Impala and cuffing Dean the second he got in. But he wouldn't be able to see Dean coming, and if Dean spotted him first, the close quarters of the car didn't lend itself to an easy defense, and put him easily within repeated stabbing distance. Impatient and frustrated during the second hour of his vigil, he seriously considered just planting himself on the hood of the Impala and waiting there, tapping his foot with a "where the hell have you been" look on his face. But "no element of surprise there," he thought grumblingly. 

     So he stuck with his original plan. He had backed in to a parking spot in a corner by a utility room, with one of the two entrances to this third level of the garage two spots over to his right. The other was about 15 spots up on his left. The Impala was parked along the perpendicular wall past the closest door, another three spaces down from him and five over. Whichever way Dean made his way back to the car, Sam would see him, and Dean would have his back to him for at least part of the trip. So surprise him, douse him, cuff him, tell him he was a dick for good measure, and be on their way. Simple. "And try not to think about what you're going to have to do when you get back." he told himself grimly.

     Sam checked the time on his phone for the thousandth time it seemed, its screen illuminating his face from below, giving it an unearthly glow. He watched the numbers lazily change from 9:32 to 9:33, then turned his attention back to the Impala. A small regretful sigh escaped him as his gaze drifted out over the car to the shimmering city lights and solid black sky he could see beyond it. He gave his head a small shake; he had been back in the dungeon again, but he couldn't afford to dwell on that now. A split seconds inattention and he could lose the upper hand, and miss his chance to get his brother back there and cure him again, as much as he was dreading having to put Dean through that once more. He refocused his gaze, and shifted to a slightly uncomfortable position, hoping this would keep his mind from wandering again.

     And not a moment too soon. A creaking metallic sound echoed eerily through the garage as the door to his right swung open, instantly drawing his eye and quickening the beating of his heart. It was Dean, finally. He headed towards the Impala at an unhurried pace, as Sam pushed the door of the rental open silently, having unlatched the door hours earlier. He left it ajar and went around the back of the car to hug the cement barrier, rapidly closing the gap between him and his brother to about ten feet. He left the illusory safety of the concrete behind him and skirted the bumpers of the cars parked beside the Impala, directly behind Dean now, and closing fast, four feet, three feet, two feet. He unscrewed the lid of the flask one handed in his pocket, and in his other, ran his fingers over the cuffs to check they were still open, ready to receive Dean's demonic wrist. He was so close to Dean now, he brought the flask out and upended it directly over his head. Sam saw the water smoke and sizzle as it made contact, running forwards to burn his brother's eyes, backwards, singeing hair and neck, and sideways to hiss over his ears. Dean let out a surprised yell, and brought a hand up to cover his face while simultaneously swinging the other out violently in a large arc, perpendicular to the ground. Sam made ready to grab his brother's arm and clamp the cuff shut around his wrist, but was suddenly thrown violently backwards and pinned hard against the side of a car behind him. Wind knocked out of his lungs, and head spinning from the impact of it bouncing off the car's roof, he struggled against the force keeping him there, but could not break it. "Well this is new." Sam thought sardonically.

     Dean was recovering from his bath now, wiping his face, hair and back of his neck with one hand, keeping the other trained at Sam as he straightened up and turned around.

     "Could you stop?" Dean said, advancing towards him. "Just. Stop. Seriously. I left you alive again, out of the kindness of my heart, isn't that enough for you? Why can't you get it through your head that I'm done. I'm done with you, I'm done "being saved". What is it about you that you just won't let it go?" With each step his brother took closer to him, the pressure keeping him immobile increased, and when Dean voiced his last question, though Sam didn't think it was possible, the crushing sensation intensified and he could barely draw breath.

     "Because it's my goddamn job! And you're my goddamn brother." Sam managed to choke out, staring in to his brother's eyes, so familiar, yet the look of hatred in them now so alien to him.

     "And even if you had asked me three days ago, those exact things would have been top on my list of reasons Sam Winchester was gonna die. So how do you want it? Cave your chest in?" Sam spent the last breath he had been able to suck down crying out now, when he felt several ribs crack and break as his brother increased the pressure once again. It relented immediately, a brief reprieve, before he felt himself being tossed bodily forward, without Dean laying a hand on him, and slammed up against a concrete pillar. He staggered and managed to turn around before Dean was on him again, this time exerting a force on his throat. "I could snap your neck." Dean said conversationally, the twisting feeling on Sam's neck doubling as stars started to swim in front of his eyes. A release again; he was thrown sideways and found much too much of himself hanging out over the cement half-wall that enclosed the perimeter of the parking garage, barely separating him from a three-storey fall. "Could make you take a swan dive. You can think about all the terrible, terrible decisions that got you here on the way down." The force that was pinning him there was also supporting him from behind, and keeping him from tumbling head over heels out in to the night. As the very tips of his toes scrambled for purchase on the floor, he felt himself drop slightly, then again. Sam's eyes wide now, his brother leaned casually over the barrier and said "Nah, I think we'll do this up close and personal." With that Dean grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, pulled him back from the brink with inhuman strength and, as Sam was unable to find his footing due to the shaking in his legs, half-walked, half-dragged Sam to slam him roughly against the Impala. "I like to watch. I'm kinky like that." Dean took a step back, and Sam realized he was immobilized again. He saw Dean draw the blade out from behind him, as he said "Well Sammy? It's been real fun."

     Then a voice Sam usually loathed to hear rang out through the night, "Well, well, well. I was just about to pop in to suggest one last little test, but my sources tell me it's already underway. Leave it to you Moose to turn up where you absolutely don't want to be and save me all the logistical trouble of organizing it myself."

     As if dumbfounded, Dean didn't speak for a couple of beats, then said gruffly, "You want more proof Crowley?" He gestured towards Sam, pointing the blade at him, "What, you think this'll be hard for me? You nearly missed it."

     Hands out in a placating gesture, Crowley replied, "Sorry, it just came to me. I thought to myself, 'Self? What better way for him to prove he'll toe the company line, and stop hero complex here from mucking up our business plan down the line with some half-cocked rescue mission, all at the same time.' Call it one final quality assurance test before you hit the open market. Carry on then." he said, leaning up against the barrier Sam had so recently been dangling over and settling himself in with the air of someone who scored a great seat to a show.

     "Not a problem." And with that, Dean turned back to Sam and ran him through with the blade without so much as blinking. Pain exploded in Sam's gut and he felt his own warm blood spilling down his front. As his legs begin to give way under him, he pressed his right hand against the Impala's window to hold himself up. Dean stared in to his eyes now as he began to twist the blade, looking as if he wanted to inflict as much damage as he could and was loving every minute of it. Gasping, Sam brought his other hand up reflexively and clamped it over Dean's, trying to push him and the still slowly twisting blade away. Suddenly, somehow, through his agony, Sam realized the pressure previously pinning him to the Impala had lifted. He was moving. A last, desperate idea dawned on him now. He, Sam might be done for, but he still might be able to save Dean. As the life drained out of him, he drew the hand steadying himself off the car, slumping slightly to his right and causing the blade to tear in to him further. He shook his arm by his side, loosening his angel sword that had somehow remained in place in his sleeve as he was thrown around by Dean. It dropped and he grasped the handle tightly, focusing on the terrible idea that had come to him and what he had to do. Repositioning it in his hand, he thought desperately, "Let this work. Please don't die. I'm sorry."

     Using the last remaining strength he had, he raised his arm as quickly as he could, hoping Dean or Crowley wouldn't have time to react, and took aim for the crook of Dean's elbow. He brought the sword down hard, cutting through cloth and flesh and bone, severing The Mark from his brother once and for all. Arm parted company with body with an unceremonious tumble to the ground, and the First Blade was withdrawn from Sam's gut with it as it fell. There was a moment when nothing at all happened, a blissful moment of silence and calm, before Dean fell to his knees and began to voice the most terrible sound Sam had ever heard. 

     In shock from what he had done, and frightened to the core by his brother's cry, it was as if he was pinned against the Impala again, immobile and helpless. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Crowley throw his arms up in the air and shake his head. He walked over, rolling his eyes exasperatedly, and sighed, speaking as Dean suddenly grew silent, "For the love of... Do you two have to do EVERYTHING TOGETHER? Fine. Die, the pair of you." He bent to retrieve the blade from Dean's grasp on the floor, and said, straightening up and looking in to each of their faces with a menacing smile, "Meet you downstairs in, what do you reckon? Ten minutes? Five? See you soon boys." And he was gone.

     Crowley's words jolted Sam in to action. He knew time was of the essence now, and he dropped the angel sword to the floor with a clang, trying to stay conscious and fumbling through his pockets for his phone. He dialed quickly when he found it, and answered the "9-1-1, what is your emergency?" with "The Plaza Hotel, parking garage, third floor. Hurry." and dropped the phone. He fumbled with his belt now, undoing it and withdrawing it from the loops of his jeans, and half-knelt, half-fell down in front of Dean, who, head down, was gasping for breath and making small, agonized sounds. "Hang on man." he said to his brother, and to himself. He looped the belt twice around Dean's bicep and tightened it with all his strength, knotting it securely and willing it to stop the alarming amount of blood spilling from his brother's arm. It seemed to abate, but Dean began to tilt forwards, and Sam tried to support him, even as his own head began to swim. He guided his brother gently to the ground, turning him to rest on his good arm, and tried to stand; he could hear sirens in the distance now, and had it in his head that he would walk out from between the parked cars and flag them down, let them know where Dean was so they could help him. He stumbled and fell back though, and found himself sitting up against the Impala's rear door. He checked his own wound and winced, pressing a hand to his stomach to try and stop his own massive bleeding. His other hand found Dean's shoulder, and he squeezed it as hard as he could, hoping for a reaction or some solace in the touch. The ambulance must have entered the parking garage now, the echoing cacophony of sirens, bouncing off tonnes of concrete and metallic cars, was deafening and dizzying, but he couldn't see any lights yet. Sam shut his eyes, urging them on silently, desperately. "Find us, please." he thought. He was having trouble catching his breath now, taking in short gasps that just weren't enough, and he felt a terrible tightening pain in his chest in addition to the burning in his gut. He willed himself to stay conscious, even as a warm and comfortable falling feeling descended over him, and he thought no more.

     Then Sam opened his eyes as a blinding white light bled through his closed lids, and found himself face to face with Castiel, who looked about as terrible as Sam felt and who had a hand to Sam's stomach, healing him.

     "Cas, don't!" he said, trying to push himself out of the angel's reach.

     "I'm sorry. I only have enough energy to heal one of you, and you are in greater danger. I will not be able to heal you completely but I should be able to repair enough to save you from death."

     "Not that! What about you?" Sam said, forcing Cas' hand away.

      "I will be fine." Cas replied, looking in to his eyes.

     Sam knew he was lying, but he didn't know what he could do about it now; it was already done. He felt immensely better, and he checked his wound and saw that it was nearly closed, as if it had been inflicted by a pen knife or letter opener. "You shouldn't have come. But thank you." he said emphatically, looking in to the angel's face, which was all eyes and incredibly pale. They both turned to Dean now, Sam grabbing his remaining wrist and feeling for a pulse, which was weak but steady, though his breathing was still rapid and he remained unconscious, his lips a faint bluish colour.

     "He should be fine, considering. He did not lose as much blood as you had." Cas turned to him now, a hint of pleading in his tone, "Please understand my decision Sam. He would not have been able to forgive himself if you died by his hand."

     "What if he dies by mine though?" a small voice in Sam's head thought sadly, blinking back tears that suddenly threatened to fall and raising a hand to his head, while he simultaneously nodded in reply. "It's o.k. Cas. I get it. You've done more than enough. Too much."

     Sam realized that the sirens had ceased, but blindingly bright red and blue flashing lights crept in to view now, as Cas bent to retrieve the angel sword from the ground. "I must go."

     Sam nodded and turned to thank him once more, but he had already gone. Sam gave his brother another squeeze on the shoulder and stood now to beckon the ambulance, which had finally rounded a corner in to view. He heard them accelerate upon seeing him, and it stopped abruptly behind the Impala. The passenger jumped out and disappeared behind the idling vehicle, while the driver made quickly towards him.

     "Hey buddy, you all right? Why don't you come sit down?" Sam felt himself being led away towards the back of the ambulance as the passenger rushed past him, a bag in hand, towards Dean. He realized how he must look, the front of his shirt and jeans soaked and heavy with blood, so he protested, already thinking ahead to a semi-plausible story about what transpired, "No, please, I'm fine, help my brother, the guy cut off his frigging arm."

     "What's your name?"

     "Sam." he replied, trying and failing to break away and return to Dean's side.

     "O.k. Sam, I'm Dave. My partner will help your brother, but you gotta let me check you out alright?"

     Shaking his head as Dave gently but insistently sat him down on the rear bumper of the ambulance and raised his shirt to check for injuries, Sam said, "It's not my blood, it's just a scratch..." but he was ignored.

     "Hey Valera? I need fluids, now!" Sam heard the Dave's partner shout from across the garage.

     "Stay here and keep pressure on that." Dave said, handing him a gauzy bandage, and, after quickly gathering supplies from various compartments in the back of the ambulance, disappearing from view around the corner of the vehicle, taking a stretcher with him as he went. Sam immediately followed, and felt as if he had been thrown in to a concrete pillar again as he drew closer and saw Dave, taking over for his partner, start chest compressions on Dean. He involuntarily fell to his haunches and watched, feeling as if the garage had become an airless and silent vacuum around him, the details of his surroundings disappearing as his entire world became the clasped hands pumping his brother's chest. His vision gradually expanded again and he saw Dave's partner start an I.V. and turn to him.

     "Where's the arm?" she asked urgently, her voice faint, the words not quite reaching Sam's numb brain. "His arm?" she said again, as Dave continued rapid compressions behind her, "They may be able to reattach it." Sam jolted upright as his eyes slid to the place where Dean's arm lay, trying to figure out how he could prevent that from happening and not understanding why she couldn't see it herself; it was only three feet away from her. Except it wasn't. A small pile of ash, subtly arm-shaped and no more than a sooty black smudge now, was gradually dissolving in to the dark red blood surrounding it, where Dean's lost limb had lain.

     Bewildered, Sam replied, "I don't know." He heard her say something to Dave about getting a pulse back and then they bundled Dean on to the waiting stretcher and rushed past him. After another confused second, he followed, joining them as the loaded Dean in to the back of the ambulance, and climbed in and sat where directed when beckoned. Dave had disappeared and reappeared in the driver's seat, and his partner slammed the back doors shut and retuned to Dean's side as the vehicle lurched in to motion. The sound of Dave speaking to someone on a radio drifted back to him as the sirens kicked back in and they accelerated out of the parking garage.

     "Sam right? she asked, and he nodded slightly in reply as he reluctantly looked at his brother now, taking in the bandages on his arm, his belt still tightly in place above them, and his ghostly pale face under an oxygen mask. The harsh overhead lights were too bright after the orange dimness of the garage, and Dean looked infinitely worse in their glare. 

     "My name is Una. That was some quick thinking with the tourniquet. D'you want to tell me what happened?" she said as she worked, hanging the I.V. bag, checking the line, taking Dean's blood pressure, locating a vial of some medication in a drawer, filling a syringe and administering it. Her movements were a study in practiced efficiency and Sam found his gaze drifting from Dean's ashen face to follow her hands, willing them to keep his brother alive and barely hearing her words once again.

     "Sam? Are you with me?" she questioned, and Sam knew she was doing her best to distract him.

     "Is he gonna make it?" he asked, turning his eyes back to Dean and starting to shake slightly, unable to hold the question back any longer and dreading to hear the answer at the same time.

     Her words of reply were as efficient as her actions. "He lost a lot of blood. Your tourniquet helped a lot, but his heart stopping isn't good. We're replacing his fluids, keeping him oxygenated, but he'll need transfusions, surgery. He's generally healthy, strong?"

     Sam stared at Dean and nodded instinctively, vehemently. He felt hot tears sting his eyes and he closed them, dropped his head and tried, almost successfully, to force them away.

     "Then he should pull through." she said simply.

     The remainder of the five minute trip passed in silence, and Sam was vaguely aware of Una moving about beside him. At one point she turned to him, hauled up his shirt, poked and prodded at him for a moment then applied a dressing to his now minuscule cut. The ambulance arrived at its destination and came to a halt, the doors springing open instantly and revealing an unknown face. Una began speaking rapidly to them, and Dave appeared, helping to whisk the stretcher bearing Dean out the back and away from him. He clambered out after them and followed them inside through a set of double doors. He was stopped in his tracks at a second set by a scrub-wearing someone as his brother and everyone surrounding him disappeared from view. The guard at the door said something about someone wanting to speak to him and tried to direct his attention down the hall to his right. He reluctantly tore his eyes away from where Dean had vanished and turned, taking in two uniformed police officers looking grim and concerned. After relaying a completely fictional account of what had happened that night, including a detailed description of their "assailant" who just happened to look exactly like Crowley, to the sympathetic officers, he set up camp first in the E.R. waiting room, then in a surgical one. The time he spent waiting in hard chairs, the events of the night replaying themselves vividly over and over in front of his unseeing eyes, seemed infinitely longer than the journey that brought him there; it had only been twelve hours since he had set out. Fourteen hours. Fifteen hours. The doors to the room where he kept his vigil finally opened, and he was beckoned over. He didn't really hear anything after the surgeon's "He's stable. He's in recovery, but you can see him shortly." The doctor continued to speak, to spout explanations and warnings that Sam knew he should listen to, but he was lightheaded in his relief and elation, and could only nod. He managed a "Thank you. Thank you so much." and shook her hand vigorously as she took her leave. He paced the floor now, heart racing, and looked up at every shadow, real or imagined, that his eyes caught. A nurse finally cast a real one as he opened the door, signaling to him and he hurried over, anxious to see with his own eyes that Dean was o.k.; never to be quite whole again, but he would gladly deal with the fallout from that as it came, as long as Dean was alive and truly his brother once more.

 

* * * * *

  


     The next thing he was aware of was his exhaustion. He had just woken up, how could he be so damn tired? He felt as if every single ounce of energy he possessed had been spent, and as if every muscle in his body had been forced to exert itself to the very end of his strength. It was a deep to the core, bone-weary tiredness, and he let it fill every part of him, because he couldn't fight it; he had nothing left. He lay there for he didn't know how long, awake but eyes closed, aware but unthinking. His mind eventually started to parade snippets of memories out for him to examine. The first felt recent and also years old, a burning torture of grotesque agonies. "No, must be recent," he thought. There weren't any drug-toting nurses in Hell that he could recall. His mind blocked the extent of it, but he remembered pain in his arm, and it returned to him slightly now, dull and heavy. He explored the sensations with his mind, and his whole arm felt gauzy, thick, and immobile, several sizes too big. There was a rolling warmth in it, just below a burn, not painful, yet not pleasant either. He felt something in his clasped hand and something covering his elbow. The next memory swam forwards, a sun filled sky and a winding circular road up the side of a hill, no a mountain. Next, he was standing at the top at the edge of a crater, the arid glory of scrubby desert alternating dusty green and terracotta stretching in all directions, a gently sloping 400 foot decline beneath him. Next came the memory of a hand on his forehead and a voice in his ear: Sam. Sam was here. The thought gave him the fortitude, despite the fact that his eyelids felt weighted by thousands of pounds, to open his eyes. Sam was to his left, asleep sitting up in a chair, one hand supporting his head, the other resting across his stomach.

     "Sam." he croaked, barely able to raise his voice above a whisper, lips so dry they cracked and his throat gritty like he had swallowed a desert. Sam didn't stir. He spoke again, this time a fraction louder, "Sammy?" and he got a reaction. His brother opened his eyes and Sam's sleep-befuddled gaze met his. Then he saw a look of grave concern spring across his brother's features as he scooted forwards in his chair.

     "Hey. How're you feeling?" Sam asked quietly.

     Already having trouble keeping them open, Dean shut his eyes hard at the question, almost overcome, and his breath caught in his throat. He didn't know how to answer; he couldn't remember what had happened, and it seemed since the second he opened his eyes to search out his brother, reality had rudely returned, and he was battling surging pain once more. "I don't know. I'm fine, right?" he asked, opening his eyes again and scanning Sam's face for a clue, almost pleading for his brother to tell him it was just a scratch, and it wasn't as bad as his pain receptors were telling him.

     "Yeah, they say you're out of the woods, you'll make a full recovery." Sam said, nodding his head grimly and looking as if he was trying to sound reassuring.

     "What the hell happened?" he asked, through tensed jaw and gritted teeth, eyes closed again as a horrible stabbing feeling worked its way up from his clenched hand to his burning shoulder.

      There was a pause, slight, but long enough to make his stomach drop. He wrenched his eyes open and saw Sam glance in the direction of his now throbbing arm, then immediately look down to the floor, then quickly back up to his own face, as if catching himself. "What do you remember?" Sam asked, staring at him intensely but still somehow not quite meeting his eye.

     Worried now, he closed his eyes and forced his mind away from his awful present and back through his disjointed memory bank, trying to place each remembrance in order as they came to him. A call to Crowley. An agreement. The retrieval of the blade. A meeting in a bar. "Prove to me that you can take a bloody order this time." A long and bloody afternoon spent proving it. Vague and heated words beside the Impala. That was it.

     "I don't know. I went darkside again. Crowley was there. That's all I got. I'm gonna be fine right? So just tell me Sam." he said weakly.

     Sam turned his gaze to the floor and looked close to tears now, mouth slightly open, blinking furiously as his eyes darted slowly from side to side.

     "Sam." he said again, trying to add a threatening tone to his feeble voice, even as fear, palpable and churning, sprung up in his gut, almost overtaking his pain. "This ain't good." he thought wearily.

     Sam spoke softly to the floor, "I just can't decide if it's worse if I tell you or worse if you remember." 

     Dean, taking in his brother's words, didn't know how to reply to this ominous proclamation, then thought "Jesus, how bad is this gonna be?" After a stunned moment he opened his mouth to say just that, but Sam, seeing he was about to reply, spoke again before he could reply.

     His voice rising, Sam said, "I'm sorry. Please, just try and remember."

     "Jesus Sammy, just tell-" pain suddenly flaming his anger and frustration at his brother's reticence higher.

     Sam interrupted him, his voice flat and defeated, "Look. Just fucking look o.k.?"

     Confused as to how looking at his banged up arm would answer any of his goddamn questions, he humoured Sam, whom he saw drop his gaze and bring a hand up to rest across his mouth. He raised his head and propped himself up ever so slightly on his good arm, slowly and terribly painfully. The pain his movement created caused a white curtain to momentarily fall across his vision, and spots danced in its wake as it lifted. He stared at the ceiling, blinking them away, then lowered his eyes to survey the damage to his arm. Except no. No no no no no no no. What he was seeing battled what he was feeling, making him dizzy and nauseous. His hand, which he could still feel wrapped tightly around a hard object, and his forearm, where he could feel each tendon and muscle straining, weren't there. Gauze and bandages over his elbow and bicep, a tube disappearing in to their knitted thickness, and nothing below. Where's his arm? Where the hell is his arm?! 

     A terrible flash of remembrance took over his sight, his arm fleshy, tangible, on the ground, having been removed violently from him. A jump back in time, he was looking down at his arm, still a part of him, plunging the blade hard in to a body in front of him. He had looked up in to the face, he remembered he had wanted to watch the life, finally, drain out of this one. Pain and hurt had twisted Sam's features, then a look of determination and steely resolve had replaced them, and a flash of muted silver had passed in the space between them, blocking his brother's face from view for the merest of seconds. Then the pain in the past and the pain in his present joined, twisted together and were indistinguishable from one another, and he was staring down at a sorrowfully empty space he couldn't bear to look at any longer.

     His good arm couldn't support him and he fell hard, crashing the few inches back on to the bed, and he involuntarily twisted his head up and back as far as he could, as far away from the gut-churning sight he had just witnessed as he could look. He couldn't catch his breath, sucking in hard through his nose, and bile started to rise in his throat causing him to gag as he fought the insistent need to be sick. It felt as if the room was spinning slowly around him, and he grabbed out frantically for something to grasp on to, finding a rail on his bed and squeezing it so hard it hurt.

     He heard Sam's voice as if from miles away, breaking as he said, "I'm sorry. I didn't know what else to do. I'm so, so sorry."

     Suddenly, horrified, he remembered what he had done, and all concern for himself vanished as quickly as a wayward piece of paper sucked out of a car window on the highway. He opened his eyes and looked to Sam, who had just dropped his head and covered the look of anguish on his face with his hands. "Jesus, are you all right Sammy? I frigging stabbed you." he said, still breathing hard but speaking louder than he had been able to manage before.

     Sam looked up, disbelief across his features, shaking his head, "I'm fine. Really. Don't worry about me."

     Heart beat slowing at Sam's reassurance, exhaustion was rapidly setting in again. Of course Sam was fine, he was sitting here talking to him. He must have misremembered the blade buried to the hilt in Sam's gut... He had to check again, "Are you sure? It looked so bad." he managed to mumble out through his torpor, closing his eyes. The heavy weight of tiredness that settled on him now was unlike any he had ever felt in his whole life. He wanted to sleep now, forever; he was entirely fine if he never woke up again.

     "It was just a scratch." he heard Sam reply softly, miles away again.

     An apathetic numbness joined his overwhelming lethargy now. Though still wracked by shock and pain, he pushed them away until they seemed to fade in and out to almost nothing, like driving out of range of a station on the radio. He focused on his missing part, still feeling as if his fingernails and knuckles, palm and wrist, muscle and vein existed as a part of him, taking in every sensation offered up to him with relish. "If I can still feel it, it's still there." he thought to himself flatly. He didn't feel the uncontrollable shaking taking over his remaining limbs, or the few hot tears escaping his closed lids, falling out the corners of his eyes and, drawn by gravity, disappearing in to his hair line on each of his temples. Sleep came slowly, battling the acidic unease and hollow grief that had settled in his stomach and mind. The last comforting yet haunting thing he felt before his mind switched off was his hand involuntarily tighten its grasp around what he now knew was the hilt of the First Blade, the last thing it would ever hold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know there's some canon problems, Dean can't be gallivanting around the bunker as a demon being the main one, but I thought of it too late. Cas can't poof to places anymore. We've never seen Demon!Dean use telekinesis but it was too fun not to do. Probably lots of other things too, tell me where I goofed. And it's not the greatest premise really, too simple. Hope everyone sounds IC, I had a really hard time writing non-demon Dean, I think because I like him so much and it's kinda like talking to your crush, it's hard right? Super nervous about this right now, I figured out recently that I've been writing fics for years in my head, but this is only the second one that made it to paper, and the first to actually go anywhere (screw you overly complex Sherlock fic!). Thanks for reading. I expect more will follow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean, between bouts of ridiculous pain (sorry, not sorry, kinda sorry) is starting to realize what this whole arm go bye-bye thing is going to mean, and Sam is mega sad and guilty and trying to be helpful but there's nothing he can really do yet, but no one can convince him to like, maybe go shower or something man.

 

     The next few days passed in a slowly receding haze, the hours he spent awake gradually outnumbering the ones he spent asleep or, more likely, knocked out by painkillers. One evening when he awoke, he kept his eyes closed, waiting for the jarringly new but now anticipated sensations in his arm to decide where they were going to fall on his "that don't feel right" to "holy shit" scale. The pain in the area just below his elbow, where his arm now officially ended, was a walk in the park; not that it didn't hurt, but at least it behaved as he expected. It twinged and twanged, reverberating to his teeth, when he moved it. It had been unbearable the first time a nurse had changed the dressing, despite being doped to high heaven beforehand, leaving him writhing and swearing, finally ramping up to such a pitch that he had blacked out. It protested loudly and angrily, causing him to avert his watering eyes and clear his throat gruffly to hide an involuntary groan, when the surgeon that had patched him up examined her work, checking his stitches, gently turning his arm this way and that, and lightly palpating each bone or part thereof that remained. But it was slowly getting better, and each time he woke up he knew it would, thankfully, be a little less than the time before. The sensations below that point, where they had no earthly right to be anymore and that belonged to nerves that sounded like they had, from what Sam said, literally burst in to flame days ago, were another story. He knew he had felt the entirety of his limb, from fingertip to shoulder, when he had first awakened, but he figured it was because he hadn't known what had happened at the time; he had expected an arm, he felt an arm. He thought the sensations would cease now that he knew what went down. But they didn't. He felt like his own hand was mocking him, figuratively flipping him the bird every time he woke up, by remaining at best benignly present and unassumingly arm-like, and at worst, unendurable, screaming the final terrible slicing sensation it had felt back at him in an unending loop, every missing muscle clenched so tightly and painfully he couldn't think, and he with no control to release them as much as he desperately and futilely strained. The first time it happened he had ended up sobbing in utter agony and frustration, eyes hidden behind his only real hand as Sam had ran for a nurse, a doctor, a firing squad for all he cared, anyone who could help. He hadn't quite been sure how morphine was going to extend its effects to something he left by the car a goddamn mile away, but it had done the job, at least for a couple of hours that day. 

     So now he cautiously and, though he would barely admit it to himself, a little fearfully, felt out the area by focusing his mind on it. It seemed all right; there was a slight sensation of something slowly drilling through the tendons and bones in his wrist that caused his brow to furrow, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. Though fully awake, he still didn't open his eyes. It felt so strange to him that he had only been here for four days, or was it five? It seemed as if a lifetime had passed. The few but growing number of hours during those days that he had spent conscious and comprehending rather than drug-addled or driven out of his head by the brutalizing from his senses were enough for him to understand that his whole future was now a giant unknowable question mark. How could he do his job an arm down? How was he going to be any use to Sam on a hunt like this? He found himself far away on more than one occasion, simultaneously trying to picture it, and telling himself in a small voice to "Stop, don't think about it." The battle between trying to imagine a life like this and denying that he had to bother doing so at all was making him incredibly tired and plaintively numb. He didn't want to talk and he knew if he opened his eyes Sam would be right there, god love him, but his brother would expect words, some sort of coherent thoughts from him about how he was doing, and he really didn't have any new ones, nor the energy to make any up. So it was easier to keep his eyes shut, and try to do the same with his mind. He lay there for he didn't know how long, the word "useless" echoing quietly over and over and over in his head, passively feeling the sensation in his wrist fade in and out, before he drifted off again. 

     It was a few hours later when a sound woke him. He opened his eyes reluctantly, the drill boring in to his wrist still there and more intense than before, and was met with the sight of one of the nurses he actually recalled seeing before standing to his right with a clipboard in hand, scribbling something down. Dean gave him a small nod when he noticed his patient was awake, and the nurse replied "Hey." and continued to write. Dean turned his head now to search out Sam and was surprised to find him gone. The nurse saw where he was looking and inclined his head, indicating to the right corner of the room behind him. He raised his head and saw Sam asleep under his jacket on what appeared to be the most uncomfortable love seat in creation; the thing looked to have about an inch of cushioning under threadbare fabric, and the frame, including the arms of it, against one of which Sam had wedged a pillow in a futile attempt to make it comfortable, was wooden and unpadded. To say he was asleep on it at all was stretching it; it was more like asleep half-on it. He had a leg bent and leaning up against the backrest and one foot on the floor, leg at a ninety degree angle to keep himself from falling off.

     "I think that's the first time any one has seen him sleep lying down. The girls took pity on him and gave him a pillow." the nurse said, just above a whisper, as he moved to the end of the bed and grabbed another chart. "I think I've only seen him leave once since you were admitted. Common around here, family forgetting to take care of themselves. We've all tried to tell him it's o.k. to take a couple of hours off, but I think he needs to hear it from you." he said wisely.

     Dean nodded in agreement, thinking back; he had been on the other side of this scenario and sleeping and eating hadn't even made it on to his list of priorities.

     The nurse made ready to take his leave, and said, still in a half-whisper, "I'm Fred. Buzz if you need anything."

     Dean nodded again, and said "Thanks." He found the "up" button on his bed and raised the back slightly so he could see, and turned his attention back to his brother. "Sam." he said tiredly but loudly. He got no reaction. "Sammy, wake up." he said, louder still, but his brother didn't stir. "Damn, this kid is out." he thought. He looked around and winced, visible and invisible parts of his arm not liking this decision at all, as he reached slowly for several objects on a table next to his bed, throwing each one, poorly, in Sam's general direction. A pen, a notepad, a box of tissues, a crumpled up coffee cup, they all missed by a mile. "Sam." he tried as loud as he could once more then, rolling his eyes, wrenched his pillow out from behind his head and taking careful aim, whiffled it as hard as he was able with his left, the swift movement causing his eyes to widen at a stabbing pain in his right. It smacked Sam in the side of the head, and he finally woke up, opening his eyes dazedly, then sat bolt upright and said, concern in his voice, "What?"

     "What are you doing man?" he asked wearily, spent and hurting from the effort, small as it had been, of waking Sam. "You got a motel room out there somewhere? 

     Sam swung himself around so both feet were on the floor now and rubbed the sleep out of his face then, surveying the objects littering the floor around him, stood and started to gather them up, replying, "Yeah, I checked in a couple of days ago I guess."

     "Use it." he told his brother exasperatedly. There was a new and terrible twisting feeling building in his hand now, and he just wanted Sam to agree to leave so he could maybe get to sleep before the task became impossible. "They've got a perfectly good, life-sized bed just waiting for you."

     Sam walked over, handed his pillow back to him and deposited the collection of recent-projectiles on the table, mumbling something about not wanting him to wake up alone.

     "I'm fine. Do it all the time. Get some sleep Sam. That's where I'm going in about five seconds anyway." Dean saw the look on his face and could tell he was about to open his mouth to protest, so he cut him off. "I'll be fine." he lied, trying to ignore what was quickly becoming unignorable.

     Sam searched his face, as if trying to detect falsehood in his assurances, with an inscrutable look on his own. Dean hitched it in to what he hoped was an "I'm just tired and you're being ridiculous" expression, rather than a "get the fuck out already before I flip out here man." one. Sam looked as if he wanted to say something, but he finally just nodded in agreement and said, "All right. I'll be back first thing in the morning." as he walked over and grabbed his jacket off his poor excuse for a bed.

     "I'll see you at noon." Dean said, in as forceful a tone as he could muster. "And don't fall asleep at the wheel." he added, the thought of how difficult, damn near impossible actually, working on the car was going to be now crossing his mind for the first time and joining his physical pain.

     A ghost of a smile found his brother's face now and he rolled his eyes slightly. "Got it. See you in the morning."

     "Noon."

     "Call me if you need anything."

     "Nope." he replied, closing his eyes, willing Sam to hurry so he could buzz his new best friend with presumably wicked drugs, Fred. "Night."

     Shaking his head slightly as he left, Sam said, "Night." too, and was gone.

 

* * * * *

 

     Sam stepped out the door in to the hallway. After the dimness of his brother's room and his recently flying-pillow interrupted sleep, his eyes narrowed slightly in the brightness of the seemingly blazing lights, which seemed to magnify in glossy reflection off white floors, white walls and white-curtained windows overlooking other rooms. His feet carried him away from his brother but he had no intention of leaving. The time he had left three days ago had felt almost like physical torture. Every fibre in him had protested each second of the thirty-five minutes it had taken him to return to Dean's side, the grating urgency he felt in his gut and base of his spine palpable. He caught a cab, retrieved the Impala from its spot next to where it still looked like a massacre had occurred, found the closest motel to the hospital, checked in, and walked in one side of the shower and out the other, all the while a litany running through his head, "Hurry, you shouldn't be here, you should be there, go back, now." And that had been before Dean had woken up. Sitting there for two days staring at the physical result of what he had done to save his brother had been bad enough. Once Dean woke up and gave anguished voice to the terrible agony he had caused, a distressed face to the irreversible change he had wrought, Sam knew he wouldn't leave again. He couldn't let him go through any of it alone. His brother didn't get to walk out the door and leave any of this behind even for a second, why should he be able to? It was his damn fault.

      He trod the now well known path to the cafeteria and grabbed a coffee, thinking he'd probably be o.k. to go back and not get told off for it in about ten, fifteen minutes. The continuous drip of morphine they had Dean on, and its drowsing side effects, meant that when his brother set his mind to sleeping he was usually out in under five. He drank his coffee even though felt wide awake now, more rested than he had in days. He figured he had gotten about four hours of sleep in that evening after he had settled himself on the small sofa when it looked like Dean was going to be out for a while. He would go back, fire up his laptop that he managed to remember to get and miraculously hadn't been stolen from the rental car, some good-hearted person seeing the door open had simply shut it and not touched a thing, and continue his research. He had been scouring the internet in any spare moment he had, his head swimming with the repercussions of his actions: contracture, occupational and physiotherapy, prostheses, phantom pain. And he hadn't stopped there. He had followed the orthopedic surgeon out of Dean's room one day and bombarded her with questions. He had asked each nurse in turn if they had seen something like this before and how they thought his brother was doing. He wanted to be as prepared as he could so he could help Dean on what looked to be a long road. He finished his coffee and, after the allotted time, headed back.

     He stopped in the doorway to check that his brother was indeed asleep. It was hard to tell; his eyes were closed but there was a slightly pained expression on his face, and his breathing seemed to be a bit laboured. He was about to go in and check on him when he heard a voice from behind him.

     "I saw you take off earlier. I thought he convinced you to finally go get some decent sleep."

      "Hey Frederico. Yeah, he did. I was going to, but..." he trailed off lamely, not really able to explain his reasoning since everyone thought a crazed British guy did this to Dean, not him. "Is he o.k.?" he asked, concerned about the look on Dean's face.

     "He had a bit of breakthrough pain just after you left, but we fixed him up. He should be out for a while. Good a time as any to get out of here man."

     He shook his head automatically, but answered in the affirmative, replying, "I will. Thanks."

     "I'm holding you to that." Fred said as he walked away.

     He went in and stood at the end of Dean's bed, making sure he really was all right. His face seemed to have relaxed and breathing evened just in the short time since Sam had appeared in the door. He found his eyes moving from his brother's wan and hollow face to linger on his injured arm; he still wasn't used to the sight. And if it still shocked him, he couldn't imagine what it was like for Dean. He ran a hand over his face and made for the sofa again, shaking his head in an attempt to rid himself of the tiredness and guilt that suddenly engulfed him. He sat down heavily and went over again what he had gone over a thousand times in his head already, trying to convince himself he had done the right thing. He had thought he was going to die, thought it was his last chance to, just maybe, save Dean. If he had known he had more time, he never would have done it. But he couldn't have let his brother go on like that. Could he? He didn't know and hadn't asked, there hadn't been a good time yet, if Dean would prefer to live like this, or to have gone on how he was. He thought he knew the answer, but he still felt incredibly selfish; in doing what he did when he did it, he hadn't given a single thought to what kind of life he would be leaving his brother to, and to face alone. He would have died happy thinking he had saved him. But seeing the results of his choice now, he wasn't sure he would make the same one again. And the guilt piled higher for even thinking that, because he couldn't be sure if the thought stemmed from what Dean was going through, or because he couldn't handle watching it. Every agonized sound his brother made, every breath he took that hitched in pain, every desperate look he cast searching for relief, every time his face fell when he woke up and remembered was bad enough, without it also being a guilt-ridden blade, buried to the hilt in his gut again. And he wanted to run. But he stayed, because Dean needed him and because he deserved this. To be silent witness, searching in vain for a way to help, to what was going to be a lifelong reminder of his selfishness and shitty decisions.

     His lids began to feel heavy now, and he slumped back on to the sofa and closed his eyes. Sleep quickly won the battle over guilt this time, and he was out almost instantly. And almost as instantly, it seemed to Sam, his eyes flew open again. He was moving before he really realized what had woken him, shouting out the door for Fred and hurrying to his brother, who looked almost as if he was seizing he was shaking so hard. He was cradling what was left of his arm across his chest, a white-knuckled grip on his bicep that looked painful in itself, and had twisted his head as far as he could to the right, the terrible guttural groan that woke Sam increasing in volume and intensity every second. Sam reached out a hand to try and offer some iota of comfort and squeezed his shoulder. At his touch, Dean's head whipped around and eyes sprung open unnaturally wide, meeting his own. The confused fear, agony and pleading in his brothers eyes almost knocked him over in his inability to do anything to help him.

     "It's o.k." Sam managed say as his brother's face crumpled and he closed his eyes again and collapsed in to quiet, sporadic sobs.

     "Sam." His brother was barely able to breathe the word out above a whisper between clenched teeth and choking gasps, and it made Sam's heart hurt.

     He tightened his grip on his brother's shoulder and said, feeling utterly useless, "It's alright man." in reply, furiously blinking back tears that suddenly sprung up in his own eyes.

     Fred appeared now with his liquid salvation and Sam sank back in to the chair behind him, keeping his hand on Dean, and dropping his head to meet his other as he raised it. He sat like that, fighting the urge to bolt or punch something or to scream in frustration, as he felt the drug take effect on his brother, the twisting tension leaving him by inches, the shoulder in his grip finally reporting it had relaxed as much as it would, and transmitting the slow rise and fall of the breathing of its owner to him. He took a deep breath himself and raised his head, sparing a cursory glance at Dean to check that he was really out, before he withdrew his hand, stood and left. He couldn't spend one more second in that room, not that night. He made it to the Impala, his throat burning, and thought about finding a bar until he saw the time, just after three a.m. and he didn't know how late anything was open. To the motel then, since he couldn't return to the only other place he belonged right now. He made it to the room, throat now so tight it hurt, shut the door behind him and stood stock-still, trying to decide if he should start breaking things or just go to bed. He was too tired for destruction he decided, so he got undressed and collapsed in to the underused, perfectly good, life-sized bed, turning his back and and trying not to think about the empty one behind him, nor the occupied one five minutes up the road that he couldn't bear to face either.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know, did anything really even happen in this chapter? There's the whump I guess. Which is enough for me. /evil


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *majestically posts terrible chapter while aggressively weeping at its terribleness*

 

       He woke up late the next morning, bleary-eyed and foggy-headed, wondering at first why he felt so unrested and tense, then vividly remembering flashes of the pain of the night before. The first feelings of his hand twisting unnaturally subsided quickly after Fred's intervention, but later, waking to his own uncontrollable voice, the twisting had turned in to impossible contortion, everything from his elbow down feeling as if it was crushed and sliced and so, so, wrong. It was as though his arm was bent grotesquely and inhumanly, every part reporting excruciatingly from a place it wasn't possible for it to be, forearm by the back of his upper arm, hand behind his shoulder, fingers splayed at sickening angles by his wrist. He hadn't be able to think, helpless in pain, or to move, save to grasp for the invisible and try desperately to pry it back where it belonged, but his good hand was met by miserable nothingness. And Sam was gone and he was alone; but Sam was there and he wasn't, and he didn't remember anything else.

       He was alone again now though. The only thing greeting him was the late morning sun falling across the floor in slits through narrow blinds over narrow windows. Other than the dull tiredness, the slowly uncoiling tension and feeling slightly nauseous from everything he had just remembered, he surprisingly felt almost normal. Still weak as hell, but his head was clearer than it ever had been inside this room. He didn't know what had changed from the day before; he thought about it and suddenly realized that for the first time since he'd lost it, there was a compete lack of input, benign or otherwise, originating from his missing arm. He felt like he was crazy, succumbing to pain, again and again, from something that didn't exist; for feeling anything there at all in the first place. But he had given up hoping that the sensations would cease. The feeling of no feeling where there once had been was strange; light, like trying to sense the air around you, and neither warm nor cool, like the brief moment after you withdrew your arm from a sun-filled car window before you noticed the absence of the heat. It was also a huge and welcome relief. Sitting up a bit straighter against the back of his bed, he ran his hand over his face, rubbing the remaining fogginess from his mind. He looked at his arm, taking in several angry finger-shaped bruises on his bicep that stood out vividly against his pale skin, and cautiously raised it, stretching it out in front of him as far as it would allow, then rotating his elbow slowly back and forth. It felt amazing and awful at the same time, and he winced but continued until the sensations met somewhere in the middle, and lowered it again. This, maybe, he could handle. He considered his arm now, really looked at it for the first time. The loss was still too hard to bear; but looking away from it and, it seemed, far back to some distant memory of when he'd had two hands, he thought he was far better off now. They had been no closer to finding a way to get rid of The Mark than the day he got it. It was crude but effective, and definitely the quickest way, maybe the only way to be rid of the goddamned thing. If he had the choice, he knew which he would pick. The thought was quietly comforting, knowing he'd rather be down an arm than up black eyes. 

       His sight switched from past to present, and he absentmindedly stared at the opposite wall, concentrating on the sensations he felt as he squeezed his arm with his hand, starting just below his shoulder and working his way down, half a hands-breadth each time, as if measuring what remained against what had been lost. He eased up on the pressure as he got lower, essentially just resting his hand over his elbow for a beat, then over the new end of his limb, where he let his hand linger. He winced and cursed silently at the wall as he bent his elbow slowly with his hand, bringing it slightly in front of him as if crossing his arms, then looked down. The empty space between his left forearm and chest was off-putting, and he imagined where each part would have fallen if it was still present: hand on upper arm, wrist to elbow, inside of his forearms touching. Comparing this way, side by side, seeing the left missing its mirror, what he lost again seemed monumental, so he looked away. His eyes settled on the ceiling as he lay his head back on his pillow and took a few deep breaths in through his nose, releasing them slowly. "Could've been worse though." he thought. "Way worse." He should thank Sam, really, for not just hacking at him blindly or missing entirely considering the state he was in at the time. Over the last few days, when he had been lucid, Sam had been filling in the blanks for him and had let him in on the fact that he had been a bit more stabbed than he initially let on, and about Cas' divine and timely intervention.

       His thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of a doctor he was fairly sure he hadn't met before; it was hard to tell these days. She had her greying head buried in a chart, reading as she walked briskly towards him. As she approached him she dropped the pages she had raised, shoved the clipboard under her arm and said, "Mr. Fraser. I'm Dr. Roa." as she extended her hand in introduction. He automatically made to respond in kind with the usual hand, but as he realized his error he saw that she had extended her left. He shook it, feeling odd and a bit grateful. She continued, "I'm taking over the lead in your care from Dr. Umana. I'm a PM&R specialist, physical medicine and rehabilitation. Basically I coordinate with your medical team to make sure we get you back on your feet and back home. Right now I'm just checking in, meet and greet so to speak. First off. How are you doing?"

       He had his canned answer of "Fine." all ready to go, mouth open and already forming the word, but something about the way she had asked threw him. Maybe it was the look of such genuine concern on her face, maybe it was because she shook his wrong hand as if it was the most normal thing in the world. He didn't know why, but he stopped, closed his mouth and actually thought about the question: he had only hurt in places that existed so far today, so that wasn't bad; he could barely look at himself, but he wasn't a demon, so there was a plus. "Not bad right now I guess."

       She watched as he hesitated in answering, and when he replied, she scanned his face for a moment then nodded and said "Do you want my doctor reply or my 'real person' reply first? How about doctor first. This is a huge adjustment. It's a life changing event. Losing a limb is very much like losing someone close to you and you'll go through the same stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. All of that while undergoing rehabilitation to recover physically from your injury. I highly recommend that you speak with someone, and we can make a psychologist available to you. A strong support system, through us here and your family at home, and you making full use of it, are key to making your recovery and transition a successful one." She paused and looked at him, as if gauging his response, which was a half-hearted nod. "The person spiel is usually a bit more blunt, you o.k. with that? I know all this is overwhelming. And it sucks. It's going to suck for a while. It's going to be hard, and you're going to get angry and frustrated and you're probably going to hate me and everyone in this with you along the way at some point. But know that: we are in this with you. And each day will be a little easier, even if it's only in some small way. With each med we get you off, with each skill you relearn, you will start to feel better. My advice is to set goals, small, short term first, one a day, or one a week, and get it done, and that will get you moving towards your long term one, which I'm assuming is getting back to work?

       His eyes and thoughts had drifted off as she spoke, her words rushing past him like raindrops racing across a car window on the highway in a storm, leaving nothing but a faint trail behind them, but snapped back to her face now when he realized what she had asked. His heart seemed to have jumped to the vicinity of his throat, and swallowing hard he replied, "I didn't think that was gonna happen."

       "That can one hundred percent happen. If you want it to, it will." She hauled out her chart again and flipped through some pages. "Your brother said you teach self defense, firearms handling. A very physical job, but there's absolutely no reason you can't get back to it. Your background will be a benefit throughout your rehab actually."

       Slightly amused by Sam's choice for his fake job, he guessed it was about as close a description as you could get without throwing monsters and ghosts in to the mix. He nodded as a shadow of a smile crossed his face for the first time since he had awoken. He felt intensely relieved, and he only realized the enormity of the weight that had been heavy on his head, stomach, and heart when it lifted in that moment. It was as if the fog of uncertainty in front of him had thinned at her words and he could make out a future now, albeit still somewhat far off in the distance; that was exactly what he wanted, to get back to it. And she had said it was possible.

       "Well there's your long term goal. Anything short term spring to mind for today?" she asked as she dropped the chart on to a table, walked over to a small sink by the door and washed her hands vigorously.

       Without even thinking about it, without realizing it was something he wanted, and maybe he had only started wanting it a moment ago, he said, "I'd like to get out of this frigging bed for a second."

       "Done." she replied, walking back to him. "Your physiotherapist is scheduled to come up this afternoon, I'll let her know to make sure to get you on your feet for a little while. May I?" she asked, indicating his arm. He nodded and tensed up a bit again as she took his shoulder in her hands, working her way down much as he had earlier, feeling each muscle and bone from every angle, and lingered for a moment over the bruises on his upper arm that seemed to have deepened in colour to an almost solid black. She then began to unwind the long bandage that was tightly covering his arm, stripping it down to leave only the gauze underneath remaining, when Sam walked in. A quick look was enough to tell him that his brother had listened to him and left to finally get some decent sleep.

       "Hey." Sam said in introduction to the doctor, while giving his brother a quick questioning look. Dean knew from years of finding each other in tense situations that this was shorthand for "O.k.?" and out of habit he nodded almost imperceptibly in reply. Dr. Roa introduced herself, shaking Sam's hand across his bed, and briefly explained who she was.

       "She's the new boss." Dean added after she finished speaking, giving Sam a mock look of fright.

       She turned back to him now, removed the remaining bandages and continued her examination. Her hands moved more slowly and lightly as she reached his elbow, but they still caused him to suck in a breath and close his eyes as his sore and swollen flesh moved beneath her touch. She eased up a bit, but continued on to where he felt his stitches pull shockingly as she applied pressure in a slow circular motion to each end of their electrified line. "Can you bend your elbow for me please. As far as you can."

       He opened his eyes and concentrated, breathing harder than he would have liked. The task seemed more difficult now than it had been just ten minutes ago, and as he bent the protesting joint towards him, it felt as if some of the relief he had just gained was leaving with each excruciating inch of movement. It vanished completely though as he reached the limit of his range of motion and his forearm and hand flickered back in to existence, announcing their arrival with a wave of nausea and a terrible spinning lurch that seemed to detonate inside the room and vaporize all the air and sound with it. If he could have seen it, his hand would have been shaking a foot from his face, palm open for the briefest of seconds before his fingers slammed closed in to a tight fist that sent a thrill of painful quakes through him. He swore and sucked air in through his teeth, trying to regain control over some part of his arm to release the shuddering tension, but neither the invisible nor the real responded.

       Sound returned to his pain-filled vacuum when Dr. Roa, taking his arm in her hands again, said "That's good. You can relax now." Air still seemed scarce though; he heard his own ragged breathing as she slowly lowered his arm for him, one hand on his bicep and the other wrapped around his elbow while working her thumb in to the bend, applying gentle pressure to unfurl the taught joint. She began to rewrap his arm tightly, and he found that it deadened the newly returned sensations enough for him to let his breath out in a long exhalation through his mouth, shaking his head minutely once or twice as he did so, feeling defeated and cheated. 

       "Well that was short-lived." he thought bitterly.

       Dr. Roa was speaking again from somewhere far away, and he turned his eyes to her to try and bring her words in to clearer focus. "...quite concerned about your pain level. On a scale of one to ten, where are you right now?"

       "Probably a five." he replied flatly after pretending to think about it for a moment.

       "And a moment ago? Where was that?"

       "Seven or eight I guess." He didn't know if those numbers sounded likely, but he just didn't care.

       "How about when you woke up this morning?"

       He could barely remember it now, that blissful feeling of no feeling. "Three."

       "And last night, when you gave yourself those bruises?"

       His face darkened and his brow furrowed, trying not to but remembering again. "Oh, that went to eleven."

       "And how would you describe it?"

       He stared at her blankly, not quite sure how to reply without sounding like he had lost it, and growing weary of the questions. "Uh, painful?"

       "Sharp or dull? Stabbing or throbbing? Crushing, tearing? Is it mainly in your residual limb or is it phantom pain?

       His head swirling with her descriptions, the only answer he could think of was "Yes." to each and every one, but he didn't get the word out. His mind came to a full stop, the word phantom echoing softly and blocking any other thoughts from forming. That word didn't belong in this setting, but somehow it was the perfect one. He must have heard wrong. "I'm sorry, what pain?"

       He almost forgot to breathe as he listened to her reply. "With an amputation, you'll have post-operative pain at the surgical site but you can also have phantom limb pain. It's just what it sounds like: pain that feels like it's coming from your missing limb. It can feel like your limb is being crushed, or becoming shortened, or that the limb is twisted in to a painful position. When a limb is lost through trauma, people will sometimes feel the pain of the initial injury. Any of that sound familiar?"

       He nodded, blinking hard at a sudden pricking he felt in the corners of his eyes, almost overcome by the fact that there was a name for what had been torturing him with pain and agonizing doubts about his own sanity. "It's real?" he asked in disbelief.

       "I assure you it's very real. Phantom limb sensations and pain are very common, especially right after an amputation happens. They usually go away over time. For now I want to get you switched over to a PCA pump, painkiller you control yourself so you don't hit these intolerable levels again. No more eleven's alright? We want you at a solid three or below from here on out o.k.? We've been stepping down..." 

       She continued to speak, but he only took in a word here and there. Sam would be taking notes. "So, not crazy." he thought to himself. The weight that had lifted earlier was feather-light compared to what left him now. Losing the arm, and what he thought he had lost with it, was one thing. What had taken its place was entirely another. It hadn't simply been inexplicable pain. There had been something else, an overarching sensation that beat deep beneath all the terrible others, dead and hollow, yet somehow filling him with its own numbly pulsing life. He had avoided thinking about it, tried not to feel it, because if he named it, it would have added a tangible layer to his impossible reality. Now that it had gone, he realized that it had been fear. He had been scared because he didn't understand what the hell was happening, scared because it didn't make sense. Terrified that it wouldn't ever stop and terrified he would be alone in it for he didn't know how long. Forever, he guessed he had thought, because he wasn't about to bring up with anyone how the part of his arm that wasn't there anymore was killing him. And as much as he tried to steel himself, every time he woke up the fear had been there, unexamined, unnamed, and unchecked, as inescapable as the pain and confirming silently that this was it: the rest of his life, spent in a battle he couldn't win, because he thought what he was fighting against didn't exist. But it did. He hardly knew how to deal with so much good news in such a short time frame. He could get back on the job, he wasn't going insane and this phantom arm would go away. It was still a little hard to believe as his hand seemed to twist in sharp reply to his thoughts, but now that he knew what he felt was real, the pain didn't seem quite as bad.

       Dr. Roa looked like she was finishing up so he tuned back in in time to hear her say she'd be back to check on him in a few days, but if they had any questions or concerns in the meantime to get someone to come find her. He nodded, trying to look as if he hadn't just joined them, while Sam, who had sat down at some point, rose and said "Thanks Doctor, we will." and shook her hand again as she made her way to the door.

       He watched the place where she had disappeared without really seeing it, his hand absentmindedly settling on his upper arm, fingers happening to fall in to place over his self-inflicted bruises. Some part of his mind registered Sam sitting back down next to him and speaking, but he didn't hear a word his brother said. Still reeling from everything he had just learned, from how much had changed in the short span of her ten minute visit, some part of him still didn't believe it. It seemed as if that part was mainly located in his arm when both of his fists tightened, the phantom painfully, causing the physical to dig in to the marks like dark pools under his skin in unbidden response, which should have hurt, but didn't. He turned to Sam and asked, half joking, half wanting reassurance that this wasn't actually some terrible joke on him, "Did she just tell me I have a frigging ghost arm?"

*     *     *     *     *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate this chapter. I had to post it just to get it out of my life. Dr. Exposition is just awful. *crumples up computer and throws in it the bin* Fuckity bye terrible chapter. Ugh. Sorry.


	4. Chapter 4

 

       Sam awoke that morning and for the briefest of confused yet exquisite moments didn't know where, or even when he was. The times he had woken in the exact same type of place, surrounded by temporary comforts for impermanent inhabitants, all seemed to run together. Few mornings on the road stood out as remarkable or memorable; they were usually just the quiet times before he and Dean got down to the job at hand, or got back on the road in search of the next. So in the few seconds after he awoke, not being able to instantly remember, he tried to place himself in time and space and his first thoughts were "Where are we, what are we hunting?" Then the sickeningly unsettled feeling dully inhabiting him explained itself with a rapid drop in his stomach as he remembered the town he was in, what had brought him to it, what had led him to this room in it. All before blinking his eyes more than a few times.

       He rolled on to his back and breathed in a few long breaths and tried to shake his mind out of the routine of the past in to the unwelcome reality of the present. Unable to stop himself, he turned his eyes to the untouched bed next to him, devoid of use and purpose, then immediately to the clock radio on the nightstand between them. It was late. If he left soon he'd be just on time to give Dean the satisfaction that he had listened to him and stayed gone until noon. If his brother was awake and coherent; if he remembered the day before.  
He got up and, sparing the empty bed another glance, made himself busy getting ready to go, trying not to dwell on how far away from normal it was to be waking up in a place like this without Dean; how strange it was to not be on a hunt or heading to the next one or home, not to be immediately at his laptop researching the monster of the day or packing up everything that had gotten strewn about the room, not to be fighting over who was doing the coffee run or loading up the Impala, not to be deciding where to eat that morning or scrounging up enough change to leave for the maid, not to be discussing their plan of attack or checking under the beds for lost socks or knives.

       It took him longer than usual to get out the door that morning. He tried to tell himself it was just because, even for all the sleep he had gotten, he didn't feel rested at all; he was still bone-tired, mind-weary. He shook himself when he found himself sleepily staring at the glazed sheen of the tile on the wall in the shower, lulled in to inaction by warm water and swirling steam. He caught himself dazedly gazing in to the depths of the well-tread carpet on the floor when he sat down on the bed to tie his shoes, his tired body stilled by the simple comfort of a soft seat beneath him. It was a relief not to think, even for just a moment, but each blissful lapse in to blankness was followed by a jolt of guilt and a tired but frenetic attempt to make up for his unintended pause.

       Mostly, with his variably successful attempts to hurry the fuck up, he was trying to prove to himself he wasn't delaying on purpose. Somewhere beneath the excuse of his exhaustion, in a place he was trying hard and failing to ignore, he knew he was dreading going back. It wasn't that he didn't want to go back. He knew he had to; he needed to. He definitely wanted to. Wanting it didn't dampen the burning unease in his chest at not knowing the state Dean would be in when he got there, or rein the barely bridled frustration running through him at his inability to do anything to help his brother if that state was a bad one. The previous night had been a terrible example of just that. Dean had been hurting and he had been useless, and he couldn't handle it. In that room arose the too familiar and oft-felt need to do something, anything to help his brother. It was a skin-crawling sense of urgency at the base of his spine that was usually answerable with action; the night before he had been powerless to give it a reply. So it had built and built and eventually he knew it wasn't going to allow him to stay there, to stay still. It needed the illusion of movement, to be appeased by the appearance of doing something, even if that something was running. So finally it had pushed him out the door, faster than thinking. And now, still with no answer for it, he was heading back, but dreading going, and wondering how long it would be before it again drove him away for not being able to help the one person in the world who needed him.

       After finally, on the third try, getting all the buttons on his shirt in to the right holes and telling himself to pull it together, he threw on his jacket, checked that his keys were in his pocket, and stepped outside, the door clicking mutedly behind him. A small but focusing chill went through him as he started walking, his first breath of brisk fall air like an Arctic blast after the befuddling heat of the motel room. He raised a hand to shield his eyes as he closed the short distance to the Impala, the near-noonday sun high and bright, reflecting at him at fifty miles per hour off the glass and metal of the steady stream of midday traffic rolling by on the nearby road. The combination of glaring light and rumbling sound seemed to sear the haze of uncertainty from his mind, and by the time he sat himself behind the wheel, he felt more awake and more resolute than he had in days. Pulling out of the small parking lot and in to traffic, he guessed if the only thing he could do to help Dean, besides stocking up on facts that weren't relevant quite yet, was to be there, then he'd be there. No more running. He wouldn't allow himself to leave, to be driven away by his uselessness.

       A thought sprung to mind as he pulled up to a red light near the hospital, and he didn't realize he had gotten lost in it until several cars behind him loudly and repeatedly sounded their displeasure at his lack of forward momentum at the green. He raised a hand and gave a slight wave to his ushers as he accelerated, then turned in to his destination and found a place to park. He got out, went to the trunk of the car and unlocked it, amusing himself slightly by wondering if demons packed pajamas. Dean's bag was there as he suspected, and he opened it to check the contents; it was his brother's usual 'ready' bag, shirts, jeans, socks, pj's all folded neatly but slightly wrinkled from extended confinement, with an assortment of weapons thrown in on top. He imperceptibly checked if anyone was near, then pulled the various knives and guns out and raised the false bottom in the trunk a little and deposited them underneath. He zipped up the bag and hauled it out, slung it over his shoulder and closed and locked the trunk.

       Sam started towards the door, then was driven back to the car once more when he realized he should try to raise Cas again; it had been a day or two since his last attempt to update the angel as to what was going on. He leaned up against the trunk and dialed, the call ringing through to voicemail as he expected. He left a terse message, realizing the moment he began speaking that nothing had really changed since his last call. Sam shook his head slightly as he ended the call, wondering what the hell Cas could be up to. He supposed it had to be more important than this; Dean was out of physical danger like Cas had said, but he still resented him a little for not even returning his calls. It wasn't as if he didn't know the extent of what had happened. He had been there, however briefly. And he knew the angel wasn't likely to be up to it, but he thought, hoped, that maybe there was something Cas could do to help. No miracles, no arm-regrowing obviously, but something, anything, some small thing to help, to ease Dean's pain. A call, a visit, would be something right now, a distraction, to help ease Sam's burden of being there alone as buoy.

       He realized he had been leaning against the back of the Impala, staring at his phone, lost in thought once again, and started towards the door. He thought of coffee, and directed his steps to the now-familiar cafeteria before he revisited his brother. He stopped abruptly at the threshold, quiet lunchtime conversations and the tinkling of glassware idling out at him with a dull almost melodious murmur that then faded to nothing as he realized he was doing it again. "What the hell are you doing. Stop stalling. Just go." he mentally scolded himself as he turned and instead headed down the hall. He felt his apprehension rising as he grew closer to Dean's room but pressed on, skirting the nurse's station as quickly as he could but throwing a cursory wave and a polite smile when he accidentally caught one of their eyes. As he approached the door, feeling the tension knitting his eyebrows, he arranged his face in to what he hoped was a neutral expression and went in.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

       "Did she just tell me I have a frigging ghost arm?"

       He waited for Sam's reply, who turned back to him, eyebrows raised, with half a smile on his face that disappeared and was replaced by look of concern as soon they met eyes. He hated that look. He hated being its cause and he had seen it so often lately it seemed like the only arrangement Sam's face was capable of making. He hastily tried to relax his own features and remove the tense look he was sure he had thanks to the pain in his arm and the revelations he had just heard.

       Sam looked unsure, then gave a small laugh and replied, "Well, I never thought of it that way, but yeah, I guess she did."

       The concern didn't leave his brother's eyes and Sam looked expectant, ready for a 'serious conversation.' He wanted that look gone, so he tried to play it down, to keep joking. "Are you freaking kidding me?This is for real? You'd tell me if this was just a joke on the doped up guy right?"

       A look of mild surprise passed across Sam's face. "You really hadn't heard of it before? I'd heard of it, but I guess it's really common from what I've been reading."

       "Uh no, I had not heard of ghost limbs returning to haunt their previous owners. File that under messed up things I learned today." He ran his hand through his hair and shook his head, "Well, I hope it ain't vengeful, because I know who it'll go after." He gave Sam a pointed look, trying to keep the conversation light, which was becoming harder as his hand grew ever tighter.

       "Who? Me?" Sam asked.

       "That was my favourite hand Sam."

       Sam rolled his eyes slightly, shaking his head, but appeared not to be deterred as he answered, "I mean, it makes sense, the brain apparently has a kind of map of the body in space and just because your arm is gone doesn't mean the nerves in the brain related to it are so... What?"

       His brother trailed off and Dean was glad his own eye-rolling hadn't gone unnoticed, since it had cost him a lot of effort to pull it off. "You have been reading way too much." he managed to say without a hitch in his voice.

       He heard the hurt in his brothers reply and could tell he was trying to come off as only mock-defensive when he said, "Hey, you've been out a lot, I had a lot of time on my hands. It's really interesting actually, they still don't know how the whole process works, but there've been studies done recently that found –"

       He had to interrupt, he was getting tired again and he knew his brother would be unstoppable in relaying what he had found out if left to his own devices. "Hey, can you stop rubbing it in about all your 'hands' and save the anatomy lesson for another time? It's just... I appreciate it, but it's a little too much to take in right now."

       "Yeah. Yeah, for sure. I wish you would have said something though, man, I could've told you."

       "Ha, yeah no. I figured the psych ward was probably just a gurney ride away if I started spouting off about invisible hands." As he spoke he settled back against the bed. He could feel his concentration waning and it was becoming harder to keep his mind focused on anything other than his arm.

       Sam was silent for a moment, Dean could feel him watching him and could tell the look was back as his brother said, "This is good though. Now that they know what they're dealing with, they'll be able to help you manage it better right? That pump thing sounds like it'll be good."

       His thoughts turned to home. He didn't want to talk about pain and meds. "Yeah. I forgot to ask her when I'll be getting out of here though. Stuck here and it's not even the good Vegas."

       He heard the smile in Sam's voice when he replied after a beat, "Well, there's a hotel here with a 'supposed' resident ghost who can't keep his hands to himself. We can check it out when you're back on your feet. If we come up with nothing, they have good tacos.

       He opened his eyes to reply, the thought giving him a slight burst of energy, "Let's go. That'll be this afternoon. Physio doc is coming up to do just that." He was only half joking, he wanted to be out so bad, to be back at it, and the start of physiotherapy had been the only indication he had heard that he was closer to getting out of here.

       "That's great man. She's nice, been up a few times already, don't know if you remember."

       He closed his eyes again and shook his head in reply, all stamina leaving him as quickly as it had arrived at Sam's tone, that encouragingly optimistic one that people sometimes took with children or the sickly, and at the realization that he himself was so excited about what boiled down to simply standing up.

       There was another moment of silence, then Sam said, "I'm gonna go, I'll let you get some sleep ok. I'll be back in a bit."

       "K."

       He heard the sound of retreating footsteps, then they paused, "Oh, I brought your bag in from the car, there's clothes if you want them."

       "Thanks."

       He gave it a few moments to make sure Sam had really gone, then he opened his eyes and checked his surroundings. He was alone. He cleared his throat and swallowed hard, his neck and jaw hurting from holding back. He really should try and sleep; he was drained from the docs visit, all the ups and downs of the conversation, and then from putting on a good show of being all right for Sam. He felt an apprehensive but burning hope within him: he could work; but he was saddled with this phantom, for he didn't know how long.

       He was trying to ignore it, the newly named pain in the arm that wasn't there, but he couldn't help but focus on it. It seemed so real, and when he really paid attention he could feel each and every part. It wasn't so much that it hurt, there between where his arm had been severed to somewhere just above his wrist, but it was definitely there at the moment, existing. The real pain right now began where the tendons narrowed from wrist to hand, and each connected to missing finger. He closed his eyes again, feeling out each taut digit, every fingertip cutting deep in to his palm, thumb clasped over them, adding to the crushing weight. He couldn't feel the handle of The Blade anymore, it was solely skin and muscle against bone and sinew now. He tried to move it, to garner any kind of response from the invisible appendage, but no conscious direction got through.

       The fix he had on it suddenly made every sensation intensify, and he drew breath. Now actively trying not to think about it, so maybe it would stop, he turned his thoughts to what was to come. He probably could have got up now and taken a walk, get a head start on the docs afternoons plan, if he hadn't been so exhausted. It should be no problem; he'd only been awake and remembering for what, two days, and already he was sick of being in this bed. And once he was up, he'd be out, and he and Sam would be back at it in no time. He recalled Sam had mentioned clothes so he blearily opened his eyes to locate his bag. He strained to remember what comfortable clothes he kept in it and figured he very well could go and change out of his hospital garb. Except that required movement. As he groggily debated whether to do so he realized he had forgot to mention to Sam that's what this Dr. Roa had said, he'd be back on the job soon. His last thought as he drifted off was a reassuring one: they could carry on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that took forever. Sorry. There was the winter from Hell, then a death in the family, then a long period of no writing whatsoever. In reality this has been written since I posted the last one, I just kept getting ideas for future stuffs and moved on to write all those before I forgot about them, and editing this chapter kept getting pushed back. So. I'm posting it now to get it out of my life (sorry, that means it's in to yours); it's not everything I want it to be (I fucking hate it), but I can't look at it anymore (months of "edit and forget it" sessions make ATOTC go crazy), and if I try and add on, it'll be another eight months. On the bright side, I have about 30 thousand more words written, with a "big idea, end game" type thing in mind now. Let me know what you think so far, if you like. Thanks for reading.


	5. Chapter 5

      Weeks later, when Sam reminded his brother about some piece of advice she had given that first day, Dean said he barely recalled Dr. Silvey's introduction in to his life; he only remembered that he had been annoyed as hell at her by the time she left. It was a feeling that still permeated their relationship, Sam suspected. His brother's words were something along the lines of, "You expect me to remember something that ninety-pound drill sargeant came out with? That whole day? Freakin' train wreck. I'm sure whatever she said was just the icing on the annoying-cake."

      "You're still just pissed 'cause she gave you homework."

      That day, after leaving Dean to sleep, Sam had whiled away a couple of hours at his now usual table in the cafeteria, drinking the coffee he had previously avoided, then several more. He absent-mindedly took bites of whatever the place had on offer that day that looked half-appetizing, while meticulously trawling for unusual activity, trying to ignore all his useless open tabs about limb-loss. He added each suspected case he found to the spreadsheet he had started a few days ago to feel, if not normal, at least like he was doing something productive, noting, gladly, that there wasn't much going on at the moment. He vaguely answered some texts and emails from a few contacts looking for lore-help that he had blindly received during a time when he couldn't spare a care for them. He helped where he could, but mostly ended up saying sorry, he didn't have access to any of his books right now and they'd have to look elsewhere. He deduced where he could, who was on what job, and added a new column with that information to his spreadsheet.

      He stretched, checked the time and figured he might as well head back. He packed up, trying not to think about how Dean, when he arrived that day, had seemed miles away from where he had left him the night before, clear-headed and almost back to his old self, and how suddenly, that terrible, hollow look had returned to his brother's face, and it had all drained away in a trice before his eyes.

      When he got back, it seemed some rest had done his brother some good; he was lamenting the terrible food at least.

      Dean, picking disgustedly at a fruit salad, looked up when he entered and said, "I'd give my left arm for a decent burger right now."

      "You maybe wanna rethink that statement? What d'ya got?"

      "Well, definitely a few toes," he said petulantly. "I don't know, there was a chicken... thing. And this stuff makes two. Two! Kinds of salad," he said with a shudder. "It's inhumane."

      "I'll call the Human Rights Bureau."

      "Hey, stow the sarcasm man," he said as he took a bite and pulled a face. "Oh right, I forgot I'm talking to the guy who orders salad _on purpose_. Give me a few days and I'll be back to where I can kick your ass for comments like that."

      "Sorry. Duly noted."

      "With one hand tied behind my back too. I'll even let you pick which one," he grinned.

      "Oh, if we're doing hand jokes now, I've had a couple — "

      "Oh, it's no joke. Watch your back man."

      He widened his eyes and raised his hand in a mock-placating manner, and jokingly said, "I will."

      "So, what'd you do?"

      "Me? Not much, just checked for cases."

      "We missing anything interesting?"

      "Nah, not much going on to be honest."

      Sam couldn't tell if his brother, as he gave up and pushed the now nearly empty tray in front of him away, was pleased or disappointed by this news. He had a grim look on his face, but that could have just been a hangover from his sorry excuse for a lunch.

      When, not too much later, two-thirty rolled around, the doorway wasn't so much darkened as dimmed for a moment when the slight form of Dr. Silvey appeared and said, "Afternoon guys." A good foot shorter than he was, and likely a decade or so older, though it was hard to tell sometimes with extremely fit people, Sam half-rose to shake her hand. She extended an arm that might be mistaken for spindly, since it was covered by what he could only imagine to be the smallest size athletic wear available to adults and it still hung slightly loose on her frame, but her grip was mighty when they shook. He knew from their previous short-sleeved meetings that both arms were basically pure lean muscle and taut skin. "Good to see you again." she said, then she turned to Dean to reintroduce herself. She extended her opposite hand, shook his, no doubt with the same iron-grip, and said, "You likely don't remember me, I'm Dr. Silvey."

      "Yup. Never seen you before in my life."

      She proceeded to explain her role as a physical and occupational therapist, "There's a lot of crossover, PTs work to restore movement and mobility, OT’s work to restore function," outlined his brother's grand therapy plan, then launched in to what they were going to start with that day. "We want to get you ambulatory as soon as possible."

      "Oh, I was born an amblin' man."

      She said they were starting slow today since she could explain it, but she couldn't really have him practice the proper way to fall, which was extremely important to protect him from further injury, without being in the gym.

      "I don't wanna brag, but I'm a really good faller. Our line of work? We get a lot of practice."

      She warned him, before she coaxed him to the edge of the bed and upright for the first time in nearly a week, of the fact that he was likely to feel off balance due to the missing weight of his arm, and assured him that he would get used to it, and told him that prosthetics were usually weighted for this reason.

      Sam stood and walked around to the other side of the bed when she had his brother perch upon it, to observe, and he could tell Dean was struggling at this small effort; he had grown very quiet, his interjections to her monologue ceasing the moment he sat up, his eyes fixed on the floor, a faraway, detached look in them as he gripped the thin side of the bed tight. Sam intensely wanted to jump in, to help him up, but he held back; he told himself that would be no help at all. He watched as she corrected his posture, his right shoulder was already hitched high in what he hoped was compensation and not pain, before he had even given his legs weight.

      "When you're ready," she said, and a short, concentrated moment passed before he saw his brother tighten his already white-knuckle grip on the side of the bed and push himself up, only to sway slightly and immediately sit back down. Sam saw Dean's head fall even further, and words of encouragement caught in his throat; they probably wouldn't help either, and were most likely to draw withering looks out of his brother, who looked like he needed all his concentration at the moment.

      Dr. Silvey filled them in for him, saying something along the lines of, "Try again, when you're ready. You're on a lot of medications, and they can make you dizzy. You'll be off most of them once you're up." He wasn't really sure of the wording; his heart was pounding so loudly in his ears he could barely hear as he watched his brother struggle and was unable to help.

      He noticed Dean's hand was now slack by his side. All the fight seemed to have left him and he held his bandaged stump tight to his middle, shoulder hitched unnaturally high once again. He didn't give up though, Sam was proudly relieved to see, as he stood again, slowly, good hand hovering half open above the bed behind him to catch his fall. Sam stepped back to give them room as his brother turned and wagered a few steps, the tiny doctor mirroring them in reverse and raising her hands to gently force his back straight and shoulder lower once again as he went. As they rounded the corner of the bed, a look of surprise crossed his brother's face when he caught his eye over the doctor's head, and Dean quickly withdrew his gaze, but not before Sam saw what appeared to be a look of shame, or embarrassment, vacant but intense at the same time. In the split second their eyes met, he tried to convey reassurance, tried to say, "Good job man, you can do this, you got this," but he was pretty sure he didn't get his point across.

      They took a couple of turns around the uncurtained spaces of the room, Sam shifting out of their way as they went, until Dean suddenly stopped, rigid as stone, with his hand on a windowsill at the far end of the room. Sam saw him give his head a sharp, minute shake, eyes bright, when she said something he couldn't hear, then she moved to stand next to him, taking his weight and arm over her shoulder as he shut his eyes and set his jaw and seemed to shrink before his eyes. They slowly made their way back to the bed and he seemed pale and small when she sat him down again.

      He saw her peer in to his brother's face, hand on his shoulder, and said, "Good. You did really good," with the smile of one who knows this kind of thing. Dean nodded in reply, but didn't look convinced as he ran his hand over his damp forehead then raked his fingers down the sides of his mouth, a gesture so familiar, albeit made with the wrong hand, Sam couldn't help but smile.

      Dr. Silvey walked around to the other side of the bed, cleared the dismal, likely not-forgotten, lunch tray off the wheeled table, plunked a previously unseen pad of lined paper and a pen on the top, and dragged it around in front of Dean. "Ok. Homework. All the teenagers I work with laugh when I say this, but, writing? It's still a skill you need. Maybe you'll need a mortgage, maybe you'll need to be signing autographs for millions of adoring fans. You've got to at least be able to sign your name."

      His brother tiredly met his eye, then half-rolled his own and replied, obviously trying to be jovial like before, but half-heartedly and unusually flat, "Can't I just text you?"

      She chuckled, "That's what they all say too. You don't have my number, so no. Practice writing your name for me, and I want one legible sentence by tomorrow. Doesn't matter what it says."

      Dean didn't meet her eye. He just stared at the paper and said, "What's after that? Show and tell? Colouring inside the lines?"

      "I know it seems pretty basic, but humour me." She turned to Sam expectantly, "You'll make sure he gets it done?"

      He pulled himself out of the hollow pit of concern in his stomach at Dean's hollow voice and joked, "At the risk of being being stabbed with that pen? Not sure I'm in," but he smiled slightly and nodded that he would.

      "All right. Great. Good job today Dean," she said as she turned back to him. He saw his brother had already taken up the pen and was scratching away at the paper, and he cursorily nodded his head in acknowledgement of her words, but didn't raise his eyes or offer a reply. "See you tomorrow," she said as she bedimmed the threshold once more.

      Sam walked over to retake his place in the chair on the other side of the bed, glancing at what his brother was still slowly and labouriously writing. He spied an untidy and wildly spaced, 'This is fucking stu—,' smirked as he sat down and said, "She'll love that man."

      Dean finished his sentence, threw the pen down and pushed the table away as he settled back in to his bed.

      The silence drew out around them, broken only by a muffled snuffle from the closed curtain around the other bed in the room and Sam cast around for something to say. He settled lamely on, "That wasn't so bad, was it? Must feel good to be getting up and around again."

      His brother barely bothered to nod his head in agreement. "Yeah, that was great," he replied with tired sarcasm.

      "It's only your first try man, give it some time."

      His brother cast his eyes around to meet his own for a second as he nodded and scoffed a quiet, "Yeah," before returning to stare through the opposite wall at some faraway, and judging by the look on his face, thoroughly uninteresting, or possibly mildly depressing, place.

      Staring up at his brother's face in sad desperation, and wanting to draw him back from the invisible brink he appeared to be standing on, he turned to the old stand-by: talking about work. He drew his phone out of his pocket and navigated to one of the texts he had replied to earlier, held out the phone and cleared his throat, trying not to sound forced. "Oh, hey, can you take a look at this? Buddy texted me, but I didn't have anything for him. You got any ideas?"

      Dean turned his head and took the phone impassively, brow furrowing slightly as he clumsily scrolled back and read the wall of text. Sam watched his eyes as they glanced over the words, then turned back to the wall of drywall again as he shook his head and offered the phone back. "Sorry."

      As he pocketed the phone again, he saw a shudder pass through Dean, saw his hand reflexively spring to his arm, saw his eyes shut and a look of resignation pass over his face. His brother spoke as his eyes opened again, "Look, I know what you're doing and you can stop."

      "What am I doing?" he said, trying not to sound defensive, though he thought he knew what was coming.

      "Being you," Dean said, and Sam couldn't help but notice the accusatory tone in his voice, "Trying to make everything all right. Normal. I'm fine. I got this. I'm just tired man. You might as well head out."

      He was saved from having to come up with an argument against this or, more likely, being shouted out of the room, by a sharp rasp on the open door and the appearance of a squat and cheery nurse he hadn't seen before and one of the daytime counterparts of Fred, Nurse Krall, walking in to the room.

      "Hello, I'm Nurse Neves," said the new face almost sing-songily, "How are we doing today?"

      Dean somehow raised his eyebrows and grimaced at the same time, but didn't say anything. Sam replied after a confused beat, "Good."

      They bustled in with practiced efficiency. Nurse Neves explained cheerily that they were there to set up Dean's PCA, and efficient they were. They had his brother hooked up, and explained to both of them in very precise but understandable terms how it worked, all in under twenty minutes. Nurse Neves pulled him aside and told him under no circumstances should he ever administer medication for his brother if Dean was unable to do it himself, while he vaguely saw Nurse Krall show Dean the exact operation procedures and half-listened to her explain that they had to monitor him closely for the first twenty-four hours. They underscored to both of them that it was borderline impossible to administer anything close to a problematic dose due to lock-out times, and not to worry. They then had them explain it all back to them to make sure they got it, though Dean did so tersely, and gave his brother some practice on his homework when they had both of them sign a wad of forms.

      They bustled out just as efficiently, leaving an echo of their flurry of activity behind in a silent whirlwind. Dean seemed exhausted by it all as he stared at the plastic controller they had placed in his hand. Sam had heard the Nurse Krall say, over the practiced spiel of chipper Nurse Neves, when she first handed Dean the button, "It's ok, if you need to use it now, go ahead, you're all set up," and saw his brother shut his eyes and press, an audible beep sounding from somewhere, with a desperately sad look on his face over his lecturer's animated shoulder. He had found it hard to concentrate after that, and was glad when they left. But now he didn't know what to say or do. The accusation his brother had thrown out before their arrival was still fresh in his mind and he was finely tuned to Dean's thumb as he sat back down, hovering as it was over the button. He tried not to appear like he watching his brother's every move, but then he supposed it didn't really matter how he looked; Dean had his eyes closed.

      "You good?" he wagered tentatively.

      His brother opened his eyes almost surprisedly and met his, nodding. He said tiredly, "Well that was a lecture and a half. Do you think there's gonna be a test?"

      He chuckled, "Probably," then continued, seriously. "You got everything?" he asked, wanting to make sure Dean had been paying attention; he knew his brother tended to tune out during long explanations.

      "Yeah," he replied, looking away. "I lost an arm, not half a brain. It's not rocket science. It's barely kindergarten. This whole place is crayons and colouring books man.

      "K. Good," he nodded more to himself than anyone else, since Dean had closed his eyes once again. He stared at his brother's stricken face, then stood abruptly, unable to look at it any longer, and said, "I'm gonna go. I'll see you tomorrow ok?"

      Dean opened his eyes for a brief moment and barely shifted them in his direction as he nodded and replied, "All right."

      He left without another word, escaping in to the hall from the creeping tension he felt within his brother's room. It might have been all in his head, that palpable feeling that he wasn't wanted or needed within its walls, or that he was somehow being blamed; he couldn't stand to be there any longer, and didn't want to press his brother with conversation and find out the answer, definitively, one way or the other. He threw his bag, with his laptop, books, and notes inside, over his shoulder as he hurried down the halls, and clutched the strap to his chest, driving away dark thoughts of responsibility with thoughts of work, selfless and distracting. He had already absent-mindedly mapped out a plan for what he would research that evening in his head by the time he reached the parking lot, and got in to the car and started it up, driving away as he tried to forget what he had left behind, Dean's brief words and his own guilt trailing him.

 

*      *      *      *      *

 

      He was too tired to be seething. What had he been thinking? He shook his head at his own remembrance. _They could carry on_. What bullshit. All these docs were basing anything on was his fake job, his fake persona, how well he faked caring about any of this crap. And his real brother was walking on eggshells around their real problem, and he just wanted to sleep. Yet his own disappointment in himself was burning; he couldn't even make it five feet around the room without needing help. Hell, he couldn't even stand up without almost passing out.

      He had tried, he thought successfully, to conceal the fact that when he first stood up that day, wait, that week, the world had spun and fallen white around him, the pivoting feeling stopping and his vision returning only when he had slumped back and sat for a few gut-churning minutes on the side of his bed, breathing hard and staring at the floor. He had fought back though, not really sure that this could be considered any huge success since he felt weak as a demon in a trap the whole time. He had accidentally caught Sam's eye as he absymally walked around the room and thought his brother must know; surely Sam could see through this, see how weak and fucking useless he really was. He had been trying to forget that his brother was there at all.  
     

      Then, when his arm had made itself undeniably known, and he had grasped on to the only solid thing he could to keep himself from collapsing to the floor, he had choked back his cries with difficulty. This new doc, she for sure heard him, dogging him as she was around the room. He had kept his eyes shut tight against its assault, and was relieved when the twisting let up a bit when he sat back down.

      He had played along after that, humouring the doctor with written scribbles, humouring Sam with feinged interest until he could ignore the forced normalcy no longer, then playing at rapt attention when two nurses beseiged his room.

      He was glad when the latter left, then was doubly glad when Sam left him alone not long after, without protest; he had been mentally, tiredly, preparing his argument to get his brother out of there. He didn't want an audience right now, not after such an embarassing performance. He wanted to slip in to the warm coma of medication they had offered up to him, had given him ultimate control over, and not think until later. Until tomorrow. Or next week. Until ever.

      When he roused later, he had no idea how long he had been out; it was dark outside the narrow windows of his room, and he looked around blearily, the words and actions of the day echoing back through his consciousness. He drove them all away with an abrupt shake of his head but couldn't drive away the feeling of urgent unease that had come with their recollection. He fumbled frantically for the call button that connected him to the hospital staff that lingered somewhere outside his room. He needed out. He needed movement, he needed to do something other than lie here for one more single goddamn minute.

      Fred appeared in his doorway a few moments later with a questioning look. He asked the concerned face, deadpan, "Can a guy get a shower around here without it being too much of an ordeal? Or is there paperwork involing my first born I gotta sign?"

      Fred smiled, "Yeah, you're good. Let me just get you disconnected from your lines. You've got to keep your bandages dry though. There's a shower room down the hall."

      He sat up and sat on the edge of his bed before Fred even got himself situated, then watched as the nurse pushed buttons on monitors and machines, withdrew needles from his hand and disconnected cables.

      He stood, and thankfully, since he was under the watchful eye of Fred, didn't sway or stumble like he had earlier, and his vision remained clear. Still, when he walked around to the other side of his bed, it was on rather shaky legs. Sam had brought his duffel bag in today or yesterday, or days ago, he wasn't quite sure, but it was there, under a chair, and he shouldered it. When he stood back up, he felt slightly light-headed but he shook it off and finally ventured in to the hall of the place he had been for nearly a week, but had yet to see any more of than the four walls he had stared at for hours on end in medicated stupor.

      Fred disappeared in to a small store room, then reappeared to walk beside him down the dimly lit hall to a swinging door with signs that indicated a men's washroom. The nurse pushed the door open for him and he went in. A mosaic of tiny tiles, dull blues and whites, covered every horizontal surface in front of him, and climbed most of the way up all the vertical ones as well. It looked like a normal public washroom, albeit dated and showing its years. A trough of sinks, a row of urinals and a hall of plastic-doored stalls were inside, but three shower stalls, with thin, plastic shower curtains hanging limply in their doors were there too.

      He made his way to the first shower stall and threw back the curtain, an overbright, narrow room revealed behind it, the tiny tiles repeating in here and causing his eyes to swim as they searched for an unpatterned place to rest upon; it was a bit much in the small space. There was a tiled bench that stretched the length of the far wall and to his right the shower, simply a sunken area of floor with a drain set in to it. He threw his bag on to the bench and turned to say thanks to Fred, and was surprised when the nurse stepped in behind him and wrapped a plastic something around and around his bandaged arm. He finished it tight just under his armpit, taped up the seams, then tapped his other wrist, oh right, he didn't have an other wrist, and, when he offered it confusedly, the nurse slapped an adhesive square over whatever plastic bits of his IV were still sticking out of him.

      "If it feels like water is getting in under any of that, get out and pull that cord there, I'll come take a look. And any light-headedness, dizzyness, nausea? Sit down right away ok, and do the same. "

     He looked at his arm and his hand, and, feeling like yesterday's leftovers, uttered an unsure, "Thanks."

      "Come find me when you're done."

      He nodded the nurse out of the tiny room and it was a moment before he slid the curtain shut behind him. Once hidden, he turned and set his sights on the tap, with a vague notion that he could simply shower, get dressed, and disappear from this place before he was noticed. He cranked it almost all the way towards the 'H' and tested the temperature and water pressure for a moment, then set about getting himself ready, forming an obscure plan in his head about how he would somehow leave, somehow find Sam and convince him to play along, and they'd be on their way.

      He unzipped his bag and rummaged around with his one good hand until he felt the rectangular plastic container that held his bar of soap, dragged it out and placed it on a, of course, tiled ledge in the shower. He turned back and continued digging until his hand grasped a tiny shampoo bottle, one of the many that littered the bottom of his bag, taken from the endless motel rooms they had occupied over the years; he couldn't remember the last time he had had to buy shampoo.

      He placed the bottle next to his soap, got undressed, and stepped under the water, hot steam swirling around him now after his delay in getting in. He kept his plastic-wrapped arm out beside him, askew, as he let the hot water flow over the top of his head and his face, and he brought his hand up to settle over his forehead under the deluge.

      He turned his back to the water, but kept his eyes closed, and swallowed hard against a tightness in his throat; it felt so nice to be doing something normal, and he could practically see himself leaving the place, and all its bullshit, behind. He dropped his hand to his side and tilted his head back, stretching his neck against the tightness he could barely breath around, and the water hit him on his crown and he let it fall, cascading backwards over his shoulders and forwards in to his eyes, for he didn't know how long.

      He finally opened his eyes and found himself staring at the only untiled portion of the stall, the dingy, drywalled ceiling, took a deep breath and remembered why he was there and his newly formed but now burning desire to get out of there. He turned and grabbed his container of soap, but was stymied for a while as he tried to shake the bottom away from the top and release the bar inside, with one hand. He vaguely wondered the last time he had used it, and figured it must have dried out, sealing itself together. He turned and ran it under the water for a bit, flipping it over and over in one hand, but it still wouldn't give. He wedged it rectangurlarly between his arm and chest, the plastic wrapped around his arm getting in the way, and pried, digging his fingernails in to the tiny semi-circles that were the only way of opening it. Who designed this shit anyway? Finally, with a slick slip, it opened, and the whole thing went flying, top and bottom bouncing with hollow thocks off the walls and floor.

      He cursed, stooped and grabbed the parts of the container from their disparate places on the shower floor with his hand, threw both on to the bench outside the flow of water, then stooped again and grabbed the bar, slippery at his feet. He soaped up wherever he could, wondering blankly if his left elbow would ever be clean again, but managed to contort himself enough to get some soap in to his left armpit. With a slight glance at the small shampoo bottle, he ran the bar of soap under the water then through his hair; he couldn't be bothered trying to struggle-fuck the tiny threaded top off that thing at the moment. Soap would do fine. He ran the bar over his face and behind his ears then slammed it on to the ledge beside him. He found his forehead with his hand again and turned his head beneath it, scrubbing the remaining bubbles from his face.

      He turned and wrenched the handle all the way to the right and the water stopped. He stood there with his eyes closed, hand on the handle, dripping coolly for a moment as a chill crept about him, and cursed himself for not thinking about a towel until that very moment. He must have one in his bag, or something that would suffice, so he turned and stepped out, wiping water from his eyes, and dug in its confines once again, trying not to drip all over the clothes inside.

      He eventually pulled out a threadbare towel, one that would be relegated solely for beach use if he had had any other sort of life, and tried to dry himself off. It was almost impossible to wrap a towel around his middle with one hand, he discovered, so he settled on drying as much as himself as he could, and started to get dressed. After he stepped in to a pair of underwear and got them all but soaked as they dragged along the floor, and pulled them up inch by inch, one-handed, he threw his towel down and repeated the same actions with the pajama pants he had settled on since they were near the top of his bag. Their hems only got slightly less soaked. Staring at his feet, he realized he didn't have any shoes, and his escape plans were thwarted for a moment until he regrouped and figured there must be some back in his room.

      When it came to his t-shirt, he wrestled it out and laid it on top of his bag, infinitely pissed at himself for not turning it the right way out when he had last washed it. He spent a good three minutes messing with it with his one hand before he knew it was actually outside-right and back to front. He threaded his arm through the bottom, found the sleeve, raised his arm and shook it until it fell to his shoulder, then shoved his bandaged arm in as well. He fished through and pulled back at the fabric for what seemed like a ridiculously long a time before plastic and gauze appeared from the other sleeve. He finally threw it over his head and pulled it down angrily, then, with difficulty, felt around for the ends of the tape that was stuck to him, ripped the plastic Fred had wrapped him with off, and threw it to the floor.

      He, as hastily as he could, packed up his limited shower parephenalia. He grabbed the tiny, unused, shampoo bottle and threw it back in to his pack, then, with one hand, tried and failed to slide the bar of soap off the shelf and back in to the bottom part of its container. He missed its falling and it slipped to the floor again. He shook his head, now just about ready to throw a punch at something, and biffed the molded plastic case hard, beside him, and sent it bouncing around the room once again. He bent and grabbed the slippery bar, trying to keep his knees dry, and slammed it in to the bottom of the case after he chased it around the floor of the stall for a moment, then slammed the top to meet it. He gave a small, exasperated laugh and shook his head again, wondering how the hell he'd ever get out of there, picking up the soap case and squeezing it until his hand hurt. He stood abruptly, threw it back in to his bag and glared daggers down at it as he reached out and almost punched the wall in front of him; he thought better of it at the last minute. He slowed his arm and opened his hand, but still slapped it hard in to the damp wall of the shower.

     Breathing hard, he raised his eyes skyward, grimacing at the total uselessness he felt. Chasing soap around, barely able to dress himself, wanting to leave but stymied by the simplest of things. He closed his eyes and levelled his head, trying not to draw back his hand and use his fist this time, and when he opened them again was met by a misty, obscured reflection. His hand was on a mirror that took up half the back wall of the stall. It ran from the top of the bench almost all the way up to the top of the tile. He hadn't even noticed it, maybe because he had been so engrossed in the task at hand, or had been wrapped, mummy-like, by Fred almost the second he had got in there. A part of him, possibly connected to the phantom part, wondered if he hadn't seen it because he wanted to avoid it. He had definitely registered the wall of plated silver above the sinks when he walked in to the bathroom though, but hadn't spared them a glance.

      He pulled his hand back slighly and took in the argent handprint he had made. Drops of condensation had pooled and were now running down the mirror in clean, vertical, lines from any point of pressure he had applied. They trickled from the imprint of each fingertip and the base of his palm. He put his hand back in to the print and wiped a squeaking circle clear and saw his own face for the first time in days.

      A hollow, slightly warped, reflection met his eye, the dampness still lingering on the mirror's surface distorting it in places. His complexion was wan, his cheeks were drawn, his eyes were sunken, but somehow too bright in his face, and there were shadows of dark lines beneath them; he looked fucking terrible. It wasn't just the pallor in his face that shook him. The eyes themselves, he recognized them as his own, but they seemed to belong to someone else, someone he didn't know; someone he definitely didn't want to know. They were watery and wide and stood out harshly. They were agonized and alien, and he had to look away, but not before he glanced down and saw the bandaged end of his arm, the first time he had seen what he was missing from another point of view, reflected back at him in the circular swath of mist he had cleared.

      He looked back up, raised his hand and cleared the mist off the remainder of the square, silver surface in front of him, all thoughts of escape now forgotten. Once faced with a clear and whole picture of his un-whole self, he stared blankly at it for far too long. "That's not me. That's not me," he shook his head as he heard the words in his mind, trying to convince himself that what his own eyes were seeing was wrong. His eyes darted to what he was missing more than he wanted, and he eventually smiled a brief, repulsed smile at himself. He didn't look away, as much as he wanted to. This was his reality now, hanging beside him, ending a foot above where it should, from where he felt it still, short and stunted and sickeningly wrong; he better get used to it. He felt queasy and he finally turned away, and threw his hand over his mouth as he gagged slightly, breathing hard, to lean heavily against the wall behind him.

      A moment later he heard the door open and thought it must be Fred, coming to check on him, and he righted himself quickly, grabbing his duffel bag and swallowing hard as he pushed past the shower curtain and back out in to the world.

      "All good in here?" the nurse asked.

      "Yeah. Good," he lied, and he walked through the bathroom and back in to the hall.

      "How'd you make out?"

      He didn't reply as they made their way back to his room. He threw his bag down beside his bed and sat down as Fred reattached him to twisting lines and cables.

      "There, all set," the nurse finally said, after completing his job and picking up his chart to make some notes. "So no problems? No light-headedness, no nausea? Nothing to report?"

      He stared at the floor unseeing, pretty much unhearing. He looked up in to the nurse's face after a moment, distracted, when he realized he had been asked a question, but still didn't offer a reply. _No problems_. Yeah, he'd had a few, but he didn't care to enumerate them.

      "Look, don't worry about it. It's gotta seem a like a pain in the ass to try and figure out how to do things one arm down. Dr. Silvey? That's what she's here for. She's great, she'll steer you right."

      His eyes drifted off Fred's face as he spoke, and the words he said became nothing more than unintelligible noise. He couldn't drive the image of his missing arm, reflected in the mirror, away. He eventually looked up and stared around the room, but he was alone. He hadn't heard the nurse leave. He pushed himself back to lay down in his bed, vaguely remembering that he had wanted to search for hidden shoes and get out of there not twenty minutes prior. In a numb corner of his mind, he laughed at himself, loudly and mockingly. He didn't even bother to shut off the light above his bed when he shut his eyes; he knew sleep wouldn't find him, what with the tight, unsettled feeling that was coursing through his chest with every beat of his heart.

      With a muted jolt he remembered the PCA newly introduced in to this life, and he slowly and blindly felt around for it at his side. He could medicate himself in to oblivion, he assumed, but he refrained. Some part of him, some old, ingrained instinct wanted his senses about him, even if those senses were tired and frayed, cut off in places, dulled by apathy yet somehow still crackling with unease, and pretty much didn't care what happened to him.

      He was sure he saw a piece of every hour that night, as he drifted in and out of an uneasy sleep and checked the clock that hung on the wall each time he not so much jerked as rolled hollowly in to consciousness. He reached up and switched off his light at some point, or maybe it was Fred that had done it during one of his many rounds. It made no difference. Darkness or light, seeing or unseeing, it didn't matter; he could still feel everything, whether it was there or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good lord. This chapter has been basically done for months, and I've just been alternately staring at it, ignoring it, re-reading it, hating it, tweaking it, writing a million other shitty things that might tie in someday, altogether avoiding it out of embarrassment, and hating it some more this whole time. I think it comes down to obsessive research, my lack of satisfaction about being able to know everything there is to know about PCAs and the American hospital system via the internet, and probably just the belief that's it's not perfect. I have so much more written, and this chapter has been such a mental clusterfuck that's been holding me back. I think it probably sucks, and 100% has no real point, but I don't know how to carry on if I exclude it and start again, so sorry, I've had to post it. I hope it satisfies some whumpy something somewhere for someone, and I hope it somehow moves the story forwards, but at this point I highly doubt either. Whumpers unite tho. Sorry Dean.


	6. Chapter 6

 

        His return to consciousness was not abrupt or jarring. He opened his eyes and was simply aware that he was aware, a vague sense of unease filling him. Most of the details of the dream that roused him were receding from his mind as quickly as a mile marker passed at speed on the highway. It had been the most normal, throwaway dream; the kind that's weird as hell, but makes perfect sense while you're in it, randomly firing synapses causing abrupt locale changes, shapeshifting players, and absurd thought processes to seem commonplace. Only upon waking did you wonder how your sleeping mind had come up with something so unimaginable, and why you dreamt it at all. 

        He had been in some sort of forest in the dark, suspended miles above the earth, yet it was brightly lit, or he, at least, had had no trouble seeing. He and Sam and someone he couldn't recall, who had morphed several times in to different people, had been navigating through dense undergrowth that had alternated between tugging gently and catching violently at his legs with each carefully measured step. They had had to get that person to somewhere, or some thing; it was the most important thing in the world. 

        He had also been somewhere else, alone, he didn't know where, maybe everywhere, but he had been afforded a view of what was not just a forest in the sky, but an entire city. He could see it from all angles simultaneously, bird's eye, elevation, from the ground below; it had been perched on thick steel plates and a maze-work of pipes, its edges jagged, streets, buildings and woods severed abruptly in odd places.

        He remembered running down grated metal, together again with Sam and their charge, their footfalls thunderous and echoing as they descended in to maybe a basement, or the hold of some cavernous ship. He had been eager; this had either been the end of their journey or the start of some important fight. He had either been about to lay down or take up his weapons, which had suddenly materialized everywhere on him, in all shapes and sizes, in pockets and sleeves and down the sides of his boots, slung over his shoulder, tucked in to the waist of his jeans, and in his hands. 

        That was why he had awoken; he had had two hands at the ready, whatever the situation might have been, and some vindictive, or simply realistic, part of him wouldn't let him carry on in believing that what he saw was real.

        He had barely blinked four times since opening his eyes. What he did remember rose quickly to the front of his mind while the rest faded even faster, never to be known. The feeling of it remained though, and he couldn't breathe. He tried to ignore it, to relegate it back to the realms of sleep and unconcern. Only seconds had passed since he had had his arm in his dream, and it seemed unreal what sight would greet him if he looked down now. He didn't move, but shut his eyes once again, wanting so badly to go back to sleep and to the dream, where the disjointed seemed everyday, and the waking world seemed the nightmare.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

        He awoke with an start and a sharp inhalation the next day. The realisation that the high-morning sun was glaring him in the eyes only registered partially as recollections of the dream he had been having, over and over all night, flew past him like a half-spied blur on the edge of the road; it might have been some animal about to dart out on to the highway in the dark, or it might just have been an oddly shaped bush shuddering in the wind. You couldn't be sure either way, but still your heart pounded and your nerves crackled and your adrenaline coursed at the thought of the evasive manouevres you may or may not have been able to make in time, if nature decided to meet you, head on.

        His heart thumped in his chest, his thoughts swam in his head and his body shook against itself as he tried to contain it, to forget. It seemed no containment was possible; he couldn't breathe. What he had left behind, what wasn't real, what he couldn't remember. That was all that he could think about, and he broke down.

        "Hey. Hey? Are you ok?" The voice spoke from close by, but sounded faint, false. He heard the words only vaguely, and had no idea how, or if, he responded to their rising, worried queries. He felt something forced roughly against his palm, felt a hand close over his own so tightly. His senses, always so sharp, even when he wished they weren't, caught up. It must be Sam, forcing his PCA on him, trying to help. He didn't need medicating right now. The drugs would work, but they really wouldn't. They would only delay the inevitable, though that might be preferable at the moment, now that he knew he was observed. Yet he didn't press, even though everything he wanted to feel was false and everything he didn't was real. 

        The voice spoke again, cutting its way in to his mind. "Dean? What's wrong?" It was alarmed, desperate, sad. 

        He couldn't put it in to words, and even if he could he doubted he would ever speak them aloud, especially to his brother. It was the feeling that had stared him in the face when he had met his reflection the night before; the disassociated, dreadful feeling that he would never be himself again, that he was forever and unfixably broken, that he could never escape it, since it was attached, or rather detached from him, and that he was always going to be less, figuratively and very literally, than he used to be.

        He was seized like an engine and there was nothing to do but coast until he stopped, locked in a memory and a nightmare, and the harder he tried to gain control, the harder it became to steer; he couldn't do anything but let the terrible longing take over. He held his breath longer and longer after each stunted gasp. He let the controller go and pressed his hand to his face, to try and hide how wrecked he was. He let Sam place a hand on his shoulder, then on the back of his neck, then let him get in close and he broke down at the touch. He let his brother's words in his ear in; they were quiet and choked and he tried to listen to what Sam said. He knew, he hoped, they must be offering some sort of comfort, and his eyes sprang open in surprise that anyone was still there for him, as fucked up and useless as he was. He heard them as one trying to pay attention to two conversations at once, trying to follow but confused and overwhelmed. "It's ok man. Shh, shh. It's ok. You're ok." They seemed looped, on repeat, infinite, ad nauseam. A ghost of his former self wondered who his brother was trying to convince.

        Eventually he, and Sam's half-hearted, half-heard litany, ceased. He dropped his hand and in some numb corner of his mind felt his brother pull away. When he could bother to take in his surroundings, he saw Sam, still sitting unnaturally close, alternately staring between the floor and his face, a dead, drained look on his own. 

        In that moment, he felt the need, from some normal, though far away and mostly excised part of himself, to speak, to explain away why he couldn't get a goddamn grip on himself. When he caught his breath and thought he could trust his voice to remain steady, he spoke, though haltingly, without looking around to see Sam's reaction. 

        "I — I don't wanna be here anymore." The words weren't a lie, but they weren't the whole truth either. What he left unsaid echoed in his mind and tore at the deadening wall he was trying to build and almost sent him gasping for air once again.

       Sam had some reply to this, but he didn't hear it, concentrating as hard as he was on biting back bitter sorrow and not losing it once more. He found a spot on the far wall and stared death at it for a long time. He didn't look away until he noticed movement close by, though upon inspection, it obviously hadn't made it through to him until long after it had actually happened. 

        He was alone; Sam's chair, it seemed like it was occupied only a moment ago, was empty, and a table bearing a plastic food tray had taken his place. He eyed it for a split second, then turned his attention away, back to the weary apathy that surrounded him, yet seemed unwilling to touch him. It was as if the room was filled with a cold-burning indifference. It festered around him and he felt its decay, but if he didn't move, didn't acknowledge it, it couldn't get in. If he just stared, and didn't think, if he kept up a front of uncaring, he would be spared its touch.

        The hours passed in leaps and bounds, with him trying not to feel, and only catching up to events long after they happened. Sam came back at some point and kept trying to cajole him in to conversation, and get him to eat, first breakfast, then lunch. The next minute, Dr. Silvey was there and he found himself upright in the hall, acquiescing to whatever she demanded, to whatever would keep them happy. The second after that, he awoke in the dim light of his room late at night and remembered and tried to forget everything in the same crushing instant. He guessed he must have slept, though it was hard to tell the difference between his burdened slumber and his waking self, He raised his head to check the clock and a disheveled form in the corner of the room drew his eye; Sam was sleeping here again, fully clothed and cramped on the couch.

        The next day raced on in much the same fashion, great dollops of daylight disappearing and he couldn't remember living them. There were intrusions from nurses and doctors, and he had seen the inside of a gym in the afternoon, and he didn't remember speaking a single word or meeting a single eye. He guessed Sam, the only constant in each numb recollection, had been filling in the blanks for him, and he was grateful. He wanted to say so, but something, the set of his jaw or the tautness in his chest, prevented him from uttering a single word; he couldn't fight through the indifference that hung in the air and threatened to engulf him, without garnering its attention. If he made a conscious move or sound, if he tried to sneak past it, it might notice him and get in; and if it did, he might never get it out.

        The next night was a bad one; pain drove any other thoughts from his mind and as he pressed and pressed on the button in his hand, something other than drugs seemed to flood through him; maybe it was because his defenses were down. He remembered being able to think at one point, and he thought it had to be so late; the darkness outside was deep, the light in the room was dim, and the silence of the place was shrouding, yet there was his brother next to him. Still there. Always there. Even though he, Dean, was useless, used up and broken beyond repair. Why didn't Sam leave? Cut his losses? Go?

        Through the pain and the tears, the cries and the curses, the indifference found its way in. He didn't know if something left him or something joined him, but he became empty. He couldn't escape the physical, that which ripped and cut at his side, so mentally, he gave up and gave in. He didn't care what happened to him anymore; he only still cared to vaguely exist at all because Sam, the stubborn bastard, didn't seem like he was ever gonna leave.

        He detached himself from himself, and watched from afar, as the body he couldn't leave twisted and writhed, then grew still and quiet. He might have dreamt it. He was never sure, but he opened his eyes in a medicated haze, not pained but hurting all the same, and it was dark. He saw his room through bleary eyes, and thought he saw Sam, not sleeping, just sitting in the corner, so still. His brother spoke after a long time, from far away. 

        "Can you say something? Anything. Please. Just talk to me man. You're starting to scare me." 

        The voice was flat and quiet, a pleading barely detectable; resignation overpowered it. It sounded like his own voice in his head; he ignored it.

        Until he remembered, and couldn't anymore. "I'm ok," he slurred. He meant to, and he felt like he even managed to summon a small, hopefully reassuring, smile, before he returned to uncaring and fell asleep again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy, I knew it had been a long ass time since I posted a chapter, but really... seeing the date of my last post is ridiculous. Sorry. So the start of this one was saved as "the stupid dream one" and yet somehow I still felt the need to post that part of it. It just became intertwined with everything after, and I didn't know how to edit it out. Srsly, a dream sequence. smdh. Also sorry. And I swear to Game of Thrones Jesus, there's, like, stuff coming: getting out of the fracking hospital, S&D dealing with perceived/real limitations and chronic pain, and what that means in the real world/the job, actually getting back *to* the job, eventually discovering this whole big-ass plot arc I've had in mind. I'm definitely not out of my depth.


	7. Chapter 7

        "Two more."

        "That just was _three_ more."

        "Well, I lost count."

        "You sure you're qualified for this job? Freaking doctor that can't even count to three, damn suspicious if you ask me."

        "You're on to me. I flunked out of kindergarten. Don't know my shapes either, it's a real problem. Grab that round-ish thing, suck it up and do the reps."

        Dean scowled up at the stern face of Dr. Silvey, repositioned himself slightly on the bench he was trapped on until she said he could go, and began the exercise again, dumbbell in his hand and weighted water-wing, as he thought of it, around what was left of his other arm. He still felt slightly ridiculous, even after a week of this, as he pressed his arms up and in to where his hands would have met at the top of the press; they were never going to meet in the middle. He felt sweat break out on his brow as he hurried through the next rep, wanting to get it over with and on to the next annoying thing she had in store for him.

        "Slow down, it's not a race."

        He slowed to a crawl, as slow as he could possibly move on the last one, and she seemed pleased as he returned to the starting position. "Nicely done. I think you can do two more."

        He gave an exasperated, bordering on angry, laugh and muttered, shaking his head up at her, "If you could see which digit I'm flipping you right now."

        "It's a thumbs up right? Because you're just so psyched about physio. I can tell."

        He grumbled and mouthed a few curse words she didn't see since she had her eyes trained on his form, darting back and forth between each arm, hands following along with his movements. He repeated the motion, but when he went to, once again, start the supposed last repetition, a pain unlike anything he had felt before shot from the tips of his fingers to his elbow and he couldn't move, he couldn't even speak, and every detail above him disappeared as if his eyes could no longer relay what they were seeing.

        "One more, c'mon, then you're done," he somehow heard from above him.

        A second later he felt the weight of the dumbbell ripped from his hand as he tried to find his voice, shaking his head blindly and finally managing, "No. No, I can't. Get it off... get it off." His voice rose urgently, insistently, but she was already removing the weight that bound his arm, suspended it immobile out to his side dangling over empty space. The minute he felt it go he clasped his arm across his chest and held his breath as another unspeakable wave crashed over him.

        "Breathe. C’mon. Remember, we talked about this. Breathe, and try some pressure."

        He forced himself to take deep breaths, which stuttered as they escaped him, as he ran his thumb over and over and over the end of his arm. He was pressing so hard it should have hurt, there where his stitches had so recently been removed, but the only thing he felt were the continued white hot lightning strikes electrifying his arm at ever narrowing intervals. He shook his head as his eyes started to water and he broke out in a cold sweat all over. His breathes became rapid, each more shallow than the last as desperation set in, and still he increased the pressure he applied with his thumb, not sure if he was still hoping for a miraculous result, or if he was simply locked in a loop, pain blocking any other signals he might send out of his head.

        "Ok, just relax you arm, open your hand, relax your fingers."

         He tried; he really tried, but all he could see in his mind's eye was his arm, probably much as it would have appeared had it existed, whole, but dead across his chest, helplessly locked in its final grip. He couldn't stop it. He felt his face fall, he was crying in agony now, shaking his head again, gritting his teeth as a low choking sound caught in his throat.

        "Ok. Let's get you back to your room." Then, "Nikki, little help!"

        He felt an arm wedge itself under his shoulders and he was hauled in to a sitting position, then was jostled higher again and he felt the floor under his feet. He tried to help propel himself forwards and got a few steps in, then he woke up groggily in his room. It couldn't have been much later, judging by the angle of the sun in his windows and the throbbing still in his arm. He tried not to move, he was so nauseous, and simply stared at the ceiling, eyes glassy and mouth slack as he tried to let air escape him in short bursts. Gradually he was able to slow his breathing and he felt a deep drowsiness overtake him. His vision became blurred, eyes half-filling and closing every now and then. He wanted desperately to sleep but it didn't come; his heart still seemed to be racing.

        He heard a sound at the door and turned his head drowsily as he heard Sam ask, "Hey, how was physio?" Their eyes met, his brother's form wavering in his vision as though he was looking at him through a rain-drenched window and Sam said, "Jesus, are you ok?"

        He withdrew his gaze; he could feel the truth and anguish rising in him. A long, undecided, moment passed, and he imagined himself nodding, just shrugging it off; but the longer he delayed the more the thought of playing at fine seemed impossible. He didn't have the energy. He didn't know what to do. He shook his head, abruptly and unbidden, and closed his eyes and mouth hard against what was tearing to get out of him; it felt as though it would shatter his rib cage, lacerate his throat, burn out his eyes when it left him.

        "What happened?" The reply was too loud, aghast.

        The panic in Sam's voice filled him with alarm and it was enough to allow him to fight off the hopelessness clawing its way out of him. He steeled himself, fought back tears that threatened to fall and swallowed words he wanted to be rid of, and forced himself to look his brother in the eye again. Behind the worry of the moment he saw such a sadness there. His exhaustion doubled in that instant; he was so very tired.

        When he spoke he was surprised at the weakness in his own voice. He took a breath but still practically slurred his reply, tripping over each word, "Guess I blacked out."

        "Shit... that bad?"

        Like the question needed to be asked. He shrugged and said in a small voice, "Guess so." He fought and lost a battle trying to keep his eyes open.

        "Get some sleep man," Sam said quietly, and Dean registered the tightness in his brother's tone.

        He heard Sam sit down. A few minutes passed then he heard a rustling that must have been Sam shifting in his chair. Sleep still didn't come, but a weighty calm settled over him as his breathing slowed. Another time passed and he still happened to be awake, so he opened his eyes and, through heavy lids, observed his brother, slouched back, brow furrowed, staring past the end of his bed at nothing in particular. It was another lid-fluttering filled few minutes, in which his own eyes drifted off Sam but remained untouched by sleep, before his brother noticed he was still awake. When Sam turned his head, the movement drew his own gaze back to his brother's face, but neither of them said anything.

        He took a breath, and something he had only thought in the blackest of pain-wracked moments surfaced, but he managed to speak it calmly, almost lazily, in his medicated state. "What the hell good am I to you now?" he stated, more than asked, barely above a whisper. He was as intently focused on his brother's reply as he could be, and Sam looked more resigned than shocked by the question, almost as if he had been expecting it, but had hoped not to hear it.

        Sam leaned forwards, shaking his head, and it seemed an eternity before he answered. "Don't think like that man. It's not even a question. If it's between this and you dead, or this and you out there with the Mark..." His brother paused, then shook his head and spoke again, "This isn't forever man. I know it must seem like it right now... and I know it's been hard... but you're gonna get better. It's gonna get easier."

        The words rose out of him before he could stop them, driven by a fear he hadn't allowed himself to think about. "And what if it doesn't?"

        Sam didn't seem to have an answer; or he did, but didn't want to say it, more like, Dean thought. "We'll manage man. We always do," his brother replied after a time.

        His response was immediate, he shook his head again slowly, "No. No way. Too much of a risk. You can't be out there when the guy who's supposed to be watching your back is..." He trailed off. He didn’t know what he was, other than a useless, ticking time-bomb of a liability.

        "You're getting way ahead of yourself man. You don't know it'll be like that."

        "You don't know that it won't." He waited for Sam to say something, looking in to his brother's face, trying to keep the pleading from his own. When he was met with what looked like confusion and pity, another question that pressed on his mind filled the silence. "Shouldn't it have stopped by now? It damn well shouldn't be getting worse." He eyes were forced closed tight by the agonizing uncertainty he felt.

        "I don't know,” his brother replied, the tone of regret obvious. “You just gotta give it time, I guess, like they said. I know you just wanna to get back to normal but... look, just don't... don't worry about any of that until you need to ok? One day at a time, right?"

        He managed a small laugh at that. "Well today sucked."

        "Nowhere to go but up then tomorrow, right?"

        He closed his eyes tiredly at Sam's optimism and replied softly, not believing it. "Yeah."

        He felt now as of he might actually fall asleep, a warm, heavy, nothingness was gathering around the edges of his thoughts and worries, clouding them from view. After a bit, from through the fog, he heard Sam say quietly, almost as if to himself, "I'm sorry."

        He pried his eyes open to question his brother. "What the hell for?"

        Sam looked surprised then a pained look crossed his face. He gestured at him lamely, "For this. Everything. Doing this to you." His brother shook his head sharply, as if he was full of regret.

        He was so tired now it was hard to string together his reply. He found himself pausing after each sentence, not knowing how long he had stopped, if he was making any sense, or if he had even said the words aloud, but he continued on, fighting to keep his eyes open as he spoke. "Hey. Nothing to apologize for. Didn't know if we would ever find a way, right? You did what you had to. You were almost too late. I almost killed you. I did kill you. You got the job done man... It's better that I'm here, not out there hurting people."

        A sudden realization gave him a wakening jolt. He raised his head and said, "I should be thanking you. Did I thank you?" Sam stared at him for a second with a confused look, shook his head, then opened his mouth to say something and began shaking his head even harder. Dean nodded and spoke before his brother could cut in. "Thank you." He held his nod and Sam's gaze until his brother dropped his head and only then did he close his eyes again, still continuing to nod slightly in his stupor. Finally the sleep that had been threatening, but until then had been elusive, came.

 

 

*        *        *        *        *

 

         Sam sat there for a while, feeling sick, until was sure Dean was out, then stepped in to the hall, talked briefly to one of the nurses at the station, and left at the slowest pace he could muster that felt normal, that he felt wouldn't draw attention, but he still bolted down the hall. He made it to the car, but he didn’t remember getting in, starting it up or driving at all. He couldn't recall navigating through a single intersection, making a single turn or seeing a single other car on the road. When he came out of his reverie, he had no idea where he was. He pulled over in to the first parking lot he saw and tried to get his bearings. He had become familiar with a few areas of town during this seemingly never-ending stay, but he didn't recognize a thing. He hauled out his phone out of his pocket and found he was forty-five minutes outside of town. He wondered, not overly concerned, how on earth he had managed that.

        He should head back. Go to the motel, get his mind off of everything, get some sleep. He made no move to leave. He couldn't bring himself to walk in to a motel room by himself at the moment, even though he had been doing so here for three weeks already. It would have felt wrong, or ominous, or disloyal somehow, after the conversation he had just had. What he should really do was head back and check on Dean, make sure he was ok, make sure he had stopped questioning his own existence because of what he, Sam, had done. He made no move to leave. He couldn't go back there either, not when his guilt was boring slowly in to his guts and his brain, eating him alive from the inside out; not when there was a chance Dean might wake up and look him in the eye and sincerely fucking thank him for ruining his life again.

        After a while, bright neon lights and movement outside the car caught his eye. He had pulled over in to some sort of bustling strip mall with businesses and restaurants as far as his periphery could see, and he convinced himself he should eat. He should do something at least, and since he wasn't doing what he should, he should make an effort to appear as if he was doing something that was a necessity. You had to eat to live right?

        He got out and walked through the nearest door that looked like it sold sustenance, sat down and ordered something to eat, but not before ordering the first drink he saw on the menu that contained hard liquor; a beer just wasn't going to cut it at the moment.

        He tried not to think about anything, but his head was like a hate-filled echo chamber. Dean had finally touched on something he himself had only been thinking in times of blackest worry and most brutal honesty; and his brother must have been feeling it a thousand-fold, even if he wasn't talking about it. Dean was, sadly, right. If his brother didn't recover fully, if he was going to be fighting against this phantom pain, that could rear up at any moment, and seemed to be getting worse rather than better, it would be too great a risk for him to go back on the job. Not because of any risk to him, Sam, but because Dean was likely to get himself killed. A moment of lost concentration, one minute of painful distraction, could be all it took.

        He had said, truthfully and hopefully, that he didn't think it was going to be like that; to wait it out, because he thought surely his brother’s torment had to end. As the days had turned in to weeks, and Dean had continued to need drugs and sedation, Sam had still believed an end to all that had to come. But today, a shade of a doubt had crept in; his brother had blacked out, a terrible first, and Sam was now staring down the bleak possibility that he had hoped wrong. The task of having to tell Dean he was right, confirming his brother’s fears, and most likely taking away all his hope and thwarting his biggest, unspoken goal, in one, was going to be down to him. He ordered another of whatever drink he had just downed the first chance he got.

        That was what had forced his apology from him earlier. He hadn't thought Dean was going to hear it. He was apologizing for future deeds as much as for past acts when he said it. Then to sit there and listen to Dean not only not blame him, but thank him, had been more absolution than he could bear; much more than he'd ever deserve. He had tried to stop him. He wanted to tell him to not dare fucking say it until they knew the true and final outcome of what he had done, but he didn't know how; not without negating every bullshit platitude he had just spewed; not without basically kicking Dean while he was down at the very lowest he had been. _So far._ He shook his head slightly at his plate; he had to stop thinking like that. But it was so hard to watch Dean getting both better and worse as the exact same injury healed, but seemingly regressed; even harder was knowing what it meant if it continued on the same course.

        He threw his drink back when it arrived and asked for the bill, having eaten, without really tasting it, as much as he could, already having continued on long after he lost his appetite, solely for the fuel. He paid, left, stepped out in to the gathering twilight and got in the car, but had to sit there for a moment. The background buzz of normal conversation in the restaurant, the helter-skelter of people going about their shopping at the strip had drained him; he had been overwhelmed by it a couple times before when he had been out and about, getting necessities, pretending everything was ok. It made him feel unreal; people just going about their lives, when life as he knew it had ground to a halt, didn't look like it would be picking up the pace anytime soon, and when, if, it ever did, it was going to be near unrecognizable.

        He did what he had done before to bring himself back to reality, and mentally shook himself. _Suck it the fuck up. Nobody died. Yeah, you fucking maimed your brother, no big deal, he'll get over it, so get the hell over it. It's not about you asshole._ The world came in to sharper focus in front of him and he started the car and pulled out of the parking lot, throat tight and guts churning, wishing he could believe his own voice in his head.

        He drove in the vague direction of town, remembering most of it this time around, and had no destination in mind. There was no place he felt he could really go. Drive to the motel, alone, and get a front row seat to how empty your life is, or drive to the hospital and observe first-hand how empty you've made another's. Inevitably, he found himself driving back to see Dean as the night above him bore down, filling the sky like the deepening blue-black of a fresh bruise.

        Once back inside and settled in his well-worn spot next to his brother, he took up his latest distraction, a terrible hospital gift-shop novel. He resumed his skimming, waiting out waiting hours to ensure they passed without problems, until Fred would most likely come kick him out again since he had lost track of time.

        He read for an hour or so, peering periodically over the top of his book to check on Dean, who, for the most part, slept peacefully. They said they had doped him up pretty well after the episode that afternoon, with muscle relaxers and a sedative among other things, and hooked him back up to the PCA if he needed it later. So when his brother started fidgeting in front of him, it began almost languidly, as if he was weighed down or bound, and after thirty minutes or so of this, Dean still didn't waken. Another time passed, with Sam's eyes darting more frequently off the page, then fidgeting suddenly seemed to give way to writhing and his brother awoke with a quiet moan, feeling around at his side for the button, which was just out of his reach. Sam dropped his book in to his lap, reached out and handed it to him.

        “Here."

        Dean opened his eyes at the word, as if surprised anyone was there, then hauled the button up, mashing it as he clutched it to his chest. His brother gave almost a groaning laugh, and said with closed eyes, "Oh Christ Sam, talk about something. What'd you do today, I don't care if it's boring."

        He filled the tense silence and Dean in on his day and tried to make it sound more interesting than it had been, and waited for the meds to kick in, which usually didn't take long. Except Dean's breathing was becoming louder and faster, not quieter, save when it was punctuated by silent lapses when his brother held his breath for longer and longer intervals, then had to give up and suck in air with a rapidity that was alarming. All the while Sam kept talking. He could see his brother's thumb on the button, pressing harder and longer each time. It mirrored the body of its owner, which was becoming tenser and tauter, pressing in to the bed as if to shrink, back as far away from its agonized world as it could get; but it wasn't enough. Sam only ceased his story-telling near the tail end of a breath his brother had held for so long it didn't seem humanly possible. He stood, alarmed, grabbed Dean by the shoulder and practically shouted his brother's name.

        "Dean?"

        His brother finally let the breath go with a terrible gasp and broke down at the end of it; he dissolved in to guttural cries and tears streamed down his face, and he raised both arms weakly. Sam grabbed his hand and was amazed at the force with which his brother pulled it to his chest. He kept his other hand on Dean's shoulder and squeezed with all his strength, and said, "Just give it a minute man, hang on all right?" It was horrible to see, and was becoming unbearable to listen to, his brother's cries were getting louder with each passing minute, and all Sam could say, was, "Shh, shh. It's ok man. Shh, c'mon, you’re all right," over and over.

        Suddenly, as Dean thrashed terribly and yelled out, Sam realized this wasn't right. He quickly placed a hand on his brother's forehead then ripped his other, with great difficulty, out of Dean's iron grasp. He heard his name called out as he left his brother's side, once, twice, three times, each more desperate and confused than the last, and looked back, distraught, to see Dean’s hand following him, searching for him. He stuck his head out in to the hall, saw Fred was already on the move, but called urgently anyway, "Something's really wrong in here!" He sprinted back to retake his brothers still outstretched hand, and clasped it tight.

        Fred followed after him and set about checking read-outs on machines and following lines then Sam heard him utter a quiet, "Shit." He was aghast as the nurse mashed a button above Dean's bed and ran from the room calling, "Right back!" over his shoulder. It seemed like days of waiting, heart-breaking, helpless days, his words of soothing becoming ever, frantically, louder in an attempt to make himself heard over and by his brother. They eventually faltered, then failed altogether; nothing he said would help, and Dean probably didn't even know he was there anymore anyway. He stood in silence and tried to detach himself from the torment that echoed around the room, that crushed one hand and twisted under the other, that he had to close his own eyes and hold his own breath against.

        Fred returned with some unknown doctor and she ordered, "You need to move." The words didn't register. He had walled himself up miles away, but still in the chaotic midst of that awful, never-ending moment.

        When Fred yelled, "Sam, out of the way!" he tore himself away again and jumped back as if scalded, his hands in the air. For a split second he was at a complete loss, having been brought back to the scene so abruptly and unprepared that he wanted to run, or press his hands to his ears, or hide his eyes, or scream with all the air in his lungs. He pressed his hands to his head and stood there, chest heaving, then practically vaulted to the other side of the bed. He laid one hand on Dean's remaining, un-bandaged, upper arm and pressed hard on his chest with the other and watched as Fred tried to hold his brother's good arm down. The nurse finally got it under control, then the doctor stepped in. She quickly administered something and Fred released Dean's arm. It immediately clawed at the hand Sam had on his chest, then up his arm, then shoulder, finally balling the shirt there in to his fist as if hanging on for dear life. Fred and the doctor stood back to wait. They all seemed to be holding their breath now, except Dean, who was alternately staring wide-eyed in to Sam's face and wrenching his eyes closed, still making unearthly, inhuman sounds.

        Slowly, imperceptibly, Dean seemed to relax. Sam didn't know when his brother released his shirt and dropped his hand, didn't know when he rested his head back, didn't know when the writhing tension left his body, didn't know when he grew quiet. He just knew, there with his hand still pressed hard to his brother's chest, the horror left Dean's eyes and it was replaced by nothing. They were still wide, as if in shock, but there was nothing behind them, as blank and empty as if he were dead. Only the blinking, the slowing heartbeat and rise and fall he felt under his hand, gave him any sign that his brother was alive. The room emptied around Sam, but he didn't notice. He stayed as he was, waiting for Dean's eyes to close. They didn't. He waited longer and longer, then suddenly stood back and withdrew his touch, not able to stare in to his brother's vacant eyes any longer.

        Sam returned and sank in to the chair on the other side of the bed in a daze. He longed for a place to rest his eyes that didn't make him want to scream or run and settled on staring out the window. He saw nothing and tried not to think; he tried to find his way back to that place he had just sheltered in, behind towering, apathetic, walls, but in the silence, he didn't know how to get there. He managed to hold it together for about the space of two slow, deep, breaths, then out of his control, and apparently out of any conscious awareness of Dean, he broke down himself. His head fell and both hands found the back of his neck, as if he was trying to wring the life out of himself, as his shoulders shook silently.

        He stopped himself as quickly as he could, but stayed sat like that, utterly exhausted, lost and defeated, until he heard movement at the door, he didn't know how much later. Fred came back in and, needing to direct the anger he felt at something other than himself, he got immediately defensive. He looked up and shook his head with eyes still shining. "I'm not leaving. Call security if you have to."

        "Just doing my rounds," Fred said placatingly. The nurse shimmied between his chair and the bed and blocked his brother from his view.

        Sam slouched back and watched Fred work, detached. As the nurse moved to the other side of the bed, Sam shook his head and mustered enough energy to ask a question he wasn't sure he wanted the answer to. "What the hell was that?"

        Fred stopped what he was doing, stared at the floor for a long minute, then looked at him gravely. "I'm shouldn't say anything. I'm sure they'll meet with you tomorrow." Sam had no idea what this meant, and was too tired to figure it out, but it wasn't an answer, so he looked up and met Fred's eye. The nurse continued after a beat. "It was the PCA. Something got messed up when they hooked it back up this afternoon, it wasn't working. I'm really sorry Sam, it shouldn't’ve happened."

        Sam nodded resignedly as he took this in, and Fred gave a sad shake of his head and went back to work. After rolling the reason around in his mind for a moment, Sam gave a sad laugh, and spoke robotically to the foot of Dean's bed. "That's almost worse. It’s not just some freak thing. That's how he'd be all the time, without it. Wouldn't he."

        "No. No, no no. Not all the time. Dr. Silvey, she said it was bad this afternoon, the worst she's seen him. You know it's not usually like that." Fred moved to the end of the bed and checked something on Dean's chart, replaced it then said, "If it's any consolation, he likely won't remember. What they gave him? Really strong stuff."

        Sam raised his eyes to meet Fred's and said with a small, sad, smile, "Any left over?"

        Fred returned it, shaking his head. "Why don't you head out? He'll be out for a good long while. Go get some sleep."

        Sam raised his eyebrows tiredly and shook his head.

        "All right. I'll be back later. You know where I am."

        Sam sat, head in hand, mind blank for a minute or two, then rose slowly and approached the bed, peering over in to his brother's face, still turned to the opposite wall, to check if his eyes had finally closed; thankfully they had. He wasn't sure he could have handled it if he had to look in to them, dull and unseeing, again. He took a deep breath, thinking that finally the worst of the night was over, then he clapped a hand to his mouth as a horrible feeling washed over him. He felt, and fought, his eyes welling up again as he thought, not for the first time, but with more regret and sadness than ever before, _What the hell did I do?_ He backed away, as if distance would make a difference, and felt his knees hit the chair behind him. He sank in to it. He didn't deserve thanks for this. How could he? The feeling, as Dean lay drugged to oblivion in front of him in order to simply to survive what he, Sam, had done, was unbearable. He wanted to go back weeks in time and stop himself from ever leaving the bunker, or even just go back mere hours and scream in Dean's face, shake him and stop him before he uttered the damning words. After witnessing what he had that night, he didn't know how his brother had ever offered them to him in the first place.


	8. Chapter 8

 

 

**LUN/A (Local Uranium Navigation/Acquisition) Site 10 - 62°23'09.6"N 96°28'39.5"W -**

**Kivalliq Region, Nunavut - 133 miles west of Whale Cove**

         

          Most said they had never seen the Aurora Borealis so tinged with gold. That night, weather agencies worldwide reported that it hadn't been visible so far south in years. If anyone in New Mexico had looked out their window that clear night, they would have seen the great gilded ribbons rippling across the sky; a glittering river seemingly searching for a place to settle on the earth.

          Reesa McNie, and her team of geologists, geophysicists and old-timey prospectors, as Will Cronk liked to refer to himself, decidedly missed the show.

          They had arrived at LUN/A Site 10 a week ago and, though they realized now they had probably made the find of a lifetime for their company, hell, for geology in general, they were eager to be done with their task; it was fast heading in to winter. The days, and certain tempers, were getting shorter, and the nights much, much colder.

          When Derek, back-of-beyond delivery-man extraordinaire, had announced his arrival with the choppy swirl of helicopter blades late that afternoon, they had greeted him with surprised jubilation. Corporate had said it would probably be another day before their insanely expensive, and therefore highly-contested, requisition arrived.

          After the team helped him unload the chopper of their precious cargo and waved him on his way, Reesa asked Amelia, the junior geologist on her team, to help her unpack and assemble their new drill-bit while the rest of the team, prospector Cronk and fellow geologist Andy Singh, prepared the rig itself, though there wasn't much left to do except re-check what they had already checked multiple times. They had been there so long, poised and waiting; hell, they had had the bore hole churned and cased out three days ago.

          "Finally! Can you believe this Reesa?" Amelia asked.

          "Nope, still can't," she replied as she thought back to the day they had gotten their first indication that something was off about their survey site.

          "Reesa!" Cronk had called to her over the wind that first day, as she reviewed the satellite data of the area on a camp stool in the door of her newly erected tent. He jogged towards her, Andy and Amelia still dutifully navigating the ground-penetrating radar behind him, down a hill and out of sight. Cronk had reached her, slightly breathless, his long hair blowing in the wind outside his hat. "Look, I know they think this site is a long shot, but they could at least send us out with a working GPR?" he had said, scandalized.

          She bit back the first thought that popped in to her head, _No,_ you _think this site is a long shot_ , and had replied, slightly alarmed, "It's not functional?"

          "Well, so far it's been reliable up to about fifteen metres, but below that? To put it scientifically, it's fucking gobbledegook. Looks like a good vein of something, kimberlites maybe, which shouldn't be here anyway, then metres and metres of I don't know what."

          She had pushed her laptop aside, scowled and hiked up the hill then down the other side with Cronk to catch up with the team.

          "Let me see," she had called as they approached, and they halted and Andy had proffered the small field moniter dangling around his neck.

          She navigated through several screens and started a replay of the raw data they had acquired so far. She shook her head after watching for a few minutes, as puzzled as Cronk was by what she saw, "That's almost reading like empty space."

          "Yeah, which can't be right. Not that much of it," Cronk had replied in an 'I told you so' tone. "A fissure that big, in this area? Shit's gotta be malfunctioning Reesa."

          "Almost I said. There's something there, it's not nothing Cronk," she had said, trying to fathom what on earth would read like that.

          "So we've found some great big fart cavern. Still not what we're here for."

          She had tried to keep the smile from her face at Cronk's colourful description and said, "Well, whatever it is, you're walking away from it. It's a big sector. You got twelve metres when you started and now you're up to eighteen. Twenty. I don't see how that's malfunctioning, you're nearly at the limit, and everything else is reading fine."

          "We all know what should be down there Reesa, and this ain't it."

          "Just because it's not what we were expecting doesn't mean it's not working. We can analyze it in detail later, try and figure out what that anomaly is. Just keep looking for what we're looking for."

          "When's the last time any of the preliminary data has been wrong 'round here though? Reesa? You know as well as I do that there hasn't been any surprises!" he had called after her as she had turned and walked away, trudging up the bracken covered hill. She had heard his voice, now quiet, obviously speaking to Andy or muttering to himself, blown to her on the wind, "Don't know why they even fucking bothered anyway." She remembered thinking she would need to have a word with him about negativity and team morale.

          Cronk's demeanour couldn't be any more different now, and she hadn't even had a chance to meet with him; the difference a potentially groundbreaking scientific discovery could make. As she and Amelia unpacked and inspected their delivery, she could see him out of the corner of her eye, running back and forth between the drilling rig and his laptop in the fading sunlight, making adjustments and fine-tuning the angle of the machine. Amelia helped her heave the heavy drill bit on to a dolly and hold it as they pushed it, rattling over loose rocks, up the shallow incline to meet Andy and the excited Cronk.

          "All right. Let's do this," Cronk said, rubbing his gloved hands together with electric enthusiasm. His words reminded her of several he had spoken the second day of their survey, during their morning meeting, in a much different tone.

          "Why are we even doing this?"

          Andy had spoken irritably before she could reply; she guessed he had heard enough of Cronk's bitching. The two hadn't said one word to each other after returning from GPR surveying the previous evening. "Because Cronk, they sent us out here to find uranium? We look for uranium."

          "And you're so sure Singh, that they haven't sent us out here to a nothing of a site, with shoddy equipment — "

          "Yeah! I am! It's working. Checked it myself last night. Just because it's not what _you_ expect, some easy, two-day, elimination job, you get — "

          "Enough," she had had to say forcibly. "What do we have?"

          Andy had glared at Cronk for a moment, then had seemed to remember himself, cleared his throat, and spoke to the group professionally, "Chemical tests are showing a few indicators of a primary halo in this sector, and results from the perimeter of sector 10-A, 100m elevation, show excellent visibility, up to 70m in some places, and it's what we expected, smooth sailing to the unconformity, excellent for core samples. We can start today. As we move up we gradually lose depth resolution, 105 we're still clear, 110 we're at the max we were anticipating, 21-22m, 115m we're at 15-18, 120m, only a 12m depth visible. I'd recommend further testing at 110-120m elevation before we send a drill down."

          Three of them had spoken nearly at once,

          "Good. We start at the perimeter and work — "

          "We're wasting our time, there's nothing worth — "

          "Hey, Reesa, have you looked at this? It's — "

          Amelia had been sitting next to Cronk, staring at the screen in front of her with furrowed brow, so Reesa had turned her attention there first when they had all stopped talking over each other, mid-sentence.

          "I'm sorry, what'd you say Amelia?"

          "Have you looked at this since it's been processed? The 3D model is rendering now, but from what I can see? It's... it's too perfect. This kimberlite-esque layer and this fissure, where we're reading the anomaly? It almost follows the grade of the hill. But it's just... too symmetrical. It's unnatural."

          Her words had hung in the air for a moment, then Andy had jumped to retake his place in his chair behind the computer screen and she had seen and ignored Cronk rolling his eyes behind her two dedicated colleagues as they moused around and pointed at the data onscreen. She had joined them, skeptical, but her eyes had grown wide as Amelia had shown her what she had seen.

          Shaking her head, she had ordered, "Andy, Cronk, get back up there and start the GPR on the other half of the sector. Amelia? You're with me, let's get a core sample started, see if we can't find out what we're sitting on."

          "Reesa, you can't be serious. Why waste our time drilling for something we know we're not here for?"

          "Call me perpetually curious. Look, they sent us out here to drill? We're drilling. If it's nothing? We tell them so. If it's something interesting, we tell them that."

          "If this shit is malfunctioning, and I still think it is, these readings ain't right, we have no idea what's actually down there. You're risking the equip — "

          Andy interrupted Cronk. "And all of a sudden you care about the 'shoddy' equipment they sent with us?"

          "Andy," Reesa had said sharply.

          "I don't want to be wasting my time, company time! On a goddamn scavenger hunt. If the stuff we've got ain't working, why risk damaging more genius?"

          "Will," she had said, even sharper, and had stared his glaring eyes down. "Get going guys."

          She and Amelia had manouvered the truck-mounted drilling rig in to position and got the equipment ready, and eventually Amelia had wagered, tentatively, "Should we be starting up here? There are some promising features along the perimeter."

          "Honestly? No. Don't tell him I said it, but Cronk's right. This site will likely amount to nothing. Not worth anybody's time. He just wants us to get our worthless cores, eliminate the site and be on to the next one. He's been a Site 12 champion since he laid eyes on it. But none of us get to forgo our due diligence on a feeling. So. They sent us out here expecting twenty-four bore holes? We'll give 'em twenty-four bore holes. We'll hit the perimeter next. Right now, we'll chalk this up to good old fashioned scientific curiosity," she had said with a wink.

          Amelia had smiled slyly back, "I've never drilled anything just for science." She had laughed slightly and continued after a contemplative beat, "Unless you count my boyfriend in grad school. I thought he was trying to sleep with TA's just for grades, and I was so right."

          She had laughed out loud at that.

          "He was a C student, all around."

          As she pushed the dolly in to place, smiling as she drifted out of her memories, she eyed the pile of ruin that were their drill-bits from that day, her own words echoed in her head. _We'll hit the perimeter next_. She had believed it until they had burned through their second to last drill head and had finally called it quits. A glittering at the base of their core, all bedrock as far as she could tell, caught her eye as they had drawn the barrel of the bit out of its frozen hole that day, and she had taken a sample, fixated on it as they had all returned to base camp that night, ignoring Cronk's pointed glances at their broken and busted signs of failure.

          She had prepped her sample, fired up the microscope in the back room of their main tent, away from prying eyes, and laid it out beneath it, expecting something unusual, since it had chewed through their bits in record time, but never expecting what she saw.

          "Whoa," she had whispered quietly to herself. She knew what it was, but still verified against every online resource she could access from their remote location, and even checked an old textbook she had brought with her. "Guys? Come take a look at this!" she had called, and her crew had come in in various states of enthusiasm, or lack thereof.

          "What is it?"

          "Take a look. Just... goddamn look."

          One by one they had peered in to the viewfinder of the microsope, and she had continued, "You know what that is? Screw uranium." Andy and Cronk had looked appropriately dumbfounded, but Amelia gave her an unsure look, so she explained. "This stuff is the hardest substance on the planet, harder than diamond. Explains why we're barely scratching it. Lonsdaleite. If it's naturally occuring here, in these quantities? This is huge."

          Andy shook his head. "There's no way this, uh, or anything really, forms so perfectly, naturally. The additional data is rendering now, I was just looking it over Reesa, it's a dome. Well what we surveyed shows a part of what has to be one. Like perfectly formed. Three metres thick. Just looking at it as is, I'd say it had to be man-made."

          Cronk had piped up, "No. No way people could work with it. Hell, we can barely even make a scratch now, with four diamond bits. No. This shit is buried under billion year old rock anyway, there weren't even any people around to work with it."

          A silence had drawn out in the room, then Amelia had asked, "How did it get here then? Like this I mean?"

          Reesa shrugged, "Who knows" She continued her explanation for Amelia's sake. "The only time it's been seen before is around massive craters, we're talking huge meteor strikes, and only ever in small particles. Maybe this is how this stuff structures itself in nature. All I know? I've got to call corporate. Let Darcy know what we've found. See if they can get us something that can drill through this shit, so we can get a real core sample."

          Amelia, wide-eyed, asked, "But... but what can drill through the hardest thing on the planet?."

          She had told her to let her worry about that and dismissed her crew with a wave of her hand, as she picked up her satphone and dialed, Cronk meeting her eye as he left with a knowing, albeit skeptical look; they read the same journals. She knew she was in for a hard sell.

          "Darcy? It's Reesa. Good. Look, we've found something huge out here at Site 10. Nope. Well, there might be a trace amounts of uranium, but what we've got? Lonsdaleite Darcy. You've heard of it? You know how rare it is then? My estimation? We're sitting on 300 cubic metres of the stuff. I just need a way to make sure. You read last month's Mineralium Deposita?  
          

          She hadn't, and she had spent the rest of the night and the next day on the phone to her and various other higher-ups in conference calls. Reesa had explained her understanding of the synthesis of a new super-hard, and therefore super-expensive, material, and its applications. She had uploaded their data, written reports, and cajoled and sometimes almost begged them. She had been met with what she hoped was dwindling disbelief about their discovery, and the gradual acceptance of the astronomical costs involved with even just verifying it. A curt, "Let us get back to you," left them in limbo that next night, but the next morning, Darcy called back.

          "It's on its way. Give it four or five days. And they want the site fully mapped. Send anything and everything you can."

          The sun now setting, and everything now finally in place, they fired up their work lights. Thousands of lumens cast an almost surgical glow around the little group and their instruments at the top of the barren hill as they began their cutting. The new prototype drill bit and Cronk's expertise behind the rig's controls made short work of their previously barely-scratched prize, and it didn't seem like long before he called over the noise that he was almost done.

          Reesa drew in as close as she could, excited and impatient to get the core out of the ground, and watched as Amelia and Andy gathered around as well. She heard the revolutions slow for a moment, then ramp up again, and she turned, eyes questioning, to Cronk.

          He hollered the words that would be their undoing. "I think I can give 'er a few more inches, might as well get as much as we can. So corporate can get a full picture." He raised his eyebrows and grinned cheekily at his own last words.

          She rolled her eyes and couldn't help but smile: Will Cronk, ever the company cheerleader. She turned her attention back to the bore hole to wait. After a minute, a sudden chattering shook the drill spindle. Reesa turned back to Cronk, concerned, and looked in to the last eyes she would ever see.

          In the bright lights, none of them saw the change in the air around the top of the borehole; it took on a vague, sparkling, quality. Almost instantaneously the four explorers disappeared, leaving nothing but dust buffeting in the wind where they had stood. The heavier particles fell quickly; some of the finer travelled for miles on a cold, Arctic breath, but all eventually settled to the earth, dusting rock and dirt and water, a field that could take up a lifetime of study.

          The sparkling crept beyond the halo of light now, a glittering, somehow more noticable in the dark, expanded endlessly in all directions as if searching for something. It settled low over the hill, mirroring the curve of the landscape, churning slowly and moving ever outwards. Almost imperceptibly, it stopped; a rapid retraction, and the glittering returned to its source, circling the metal shaft that had cut through and freed it from its domed prison. Its slow swirling picked up speed at the top of the hill, as if gathering itself. Almost lazily, a streak headed skyward and continued up for miles, until the last of it trailed away.

          Unattended, the motor of the drilling rig chugged dutifully along for a good hour until it ran out of fuel, its bit spinning in empty space with no one left to force it on or call it back. The generator running the work lights and the electronics in the tents sputtered and died near dawn, since no one had been there to refill it before bed, the site now silent and dark and still. Nylon domes, all perched near the top of a desolate hill in almost exactly the middle of nowhere, shuddered slightly in the wind, lifeless.

          Most said they had never seen the Aurora Borealis so tinged with gold. Most had never seen it before at all. It lit the sky and rippled out in all directions. It spanned the globe and crosshatched the sky with the ebb and flow of its web. As day broke, its light faded, but it still lingered there miles above, unseen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BOOOO HISSSSSS BOOOO OCs. Sorry. But they're dead now and you'll never hear from them again, promise. Also, I'd like to apologize to the entire field of geology. *posts and runs away*
> 
> *runs back for a sec* Oh yeah, another chapter coming very shortly, later tonight or tomorrow, it's almost done. *runs away again until is just a tiny speck on the horizon*


	9. Chapter 9

 

       The next day was a strange one from the word go. First off, he had a hell of a time waking up. When he had his head about him enough to try and count, Dean figured he had already been through his morning at least three times in hazy, limbo dreams before he even actually started it. Each time, getting up and going through the mundane routine of hospital living, had seemed so real; even the latent dread of facing another boring day made it in. The arm always, eventually, gave it away.

       When he was sure he had actually reached the real world, he was stayed from getting up for a few moments; the world was spinning languidly around him, and it took grabbing on to the bed rail, and a couple of slow, deep breaths to get it to stop. He reluctantly rolled out of bed, a bit dizzy and still exhausted somehow, and was surprised to find Sam passed out in the chair next to it. It had definitely been pretty early in the afternoon when he, Dean, had conked out yesterday, why the hell was his brother still here? When he gave Sam's seat a slight kick in the leg on his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth, his brother jolted awake, wide-eyed, as if his chair was of the electric variety, then slumped back like the death sentence had done its job. Dean asked him what he was still doing there, but never did get a straight answer. Sam, who looked as tired as Dean felt, rubbed a hand over his eyes, mumbled something and all he caught was 'crashed here'.

       Speaking thickly from around his toothbrush, a new electric one that Sam had got him, thank God, because even with it, he was still doing a piss-poor job, the angles of attack were all wrong with his opposite hand, Dean called from the bathroom, "Go to the motel man, I don't know why the hell you'd wanna sleep here if you don't have to."

       He eventually saw movement outside the door, out of the corner of his eye as he was spitting, and barely heard Sam say over the running water and the electric buzz in his head, "Yeah, I'm gonna head out, see you later." 

       Without looking around, he raised his non-existent hand with what he had intended to be a wave, but consigned himself, once he realized, to it just being an acknowledgement. He finished up, teeth feeling not quite clean, splashed some water on his face to try and clear the fog from around his brain, and the room was empty when he returned.

       As he dragged his IV stand back with him and stowed his toothbrush in his bag under the bed, he noticed a low murmur from the hall. It sounded like a group of people talking; not an uncommon occurrence, but it piqued his interest because he thought he heard his brother's voice among them. He turned to look, curious, but didn't see anyone in the narrow frame of reference the doorway offered. He took a slight step towards the door to get a wider scope and only then did he catch a split-second glimpse of four or five backs walking away, down the hall past the nurse's station. One of them might have been Sam, but he couldn't be sure.

       Dean leaned over a bit, to follow their path, but his interest was dwindling as fast as maybe-Sam and friends were retreating; his head had been pounding slightly since he woke up, and standing up, and definitely craning his neck around corners, hadn't helped. He gave it up as a bad job, turned, leaned against his bed and shut his eyes, twisting his neck from side to side slightly to try and alleviate the pressure in his jaw and behind his eyes. He had the prospect of a disappointing breakfast to concentrate on anyway.

       He choked back as much of it as he could when it arrived. He was just as thoroughly not hungry as it was mediocre, but he continued eating long after his stomach started protesting, knowing the ire an unemptied tray would raise from Jill, the orderly who delivered his breakfast. She seemed to take it as a personal affront if he didn't clean his plate; if anyone dared not to, for that matter. She didn't seem to have an indoor voice, and he had heard her chastising someone a couple of rooms up just yesterday.

       Dean only stopped and pushed his tray away when his guts did a nauseating somersault and the back of his mouth filled with bitter saliva. When Jill returned, he braced himself for a tirade, but all he got was a disappointed exhale, and, maybe it was just in his head, she didn't seem meet his eye as she cleared it away.

       Physio was an altogether different type of baffling right from the start that day too. When Mateo, the aide who usually came to get him, showed up, he was too quiet. Silence from the guy who, in less than two dozen three minute trips, had told Dean all about his mother and her troubles franchising her company, his twin sisters and their troubles deciding on colleges, and his brother and his troubles choosing between high school swimming and football, was unnerving. He forgot all about his quest to come up with questions to get Mateo talking on their return trip when he got to physio itself though.

       Everything Dr. Silvey had him attempt seemed three times as difficult as it had been just the day prior, almost as hard as when he first started, and as the day wore on, they were definitely four times as annoying. He felt like he had fallen back to square one, and he fully expected her to call him out on it. She remained almost silent though as well, only uttering a word here or there to count his reps or inform him of his next task. She didn't push him at all, and while he was secretly glad, since he was already trying with everything he had in him, he was perturbed all the same. This wasn't the doctor he knew, always spurring him on with 'one more, two more, ten more, try this, you can do it', usually to his chagrin.

       After the tenth or so exercise that he had obviously regressed in, and she hadn't said a thing, he called _her_ out with a frustrated sigh, "So, should I just get outta here? If I'm gonna suck this bad I can do it by myself. Might as well stop wasting each other's time right?"

       She took a moment to reply, and when she finally did, it wasn't anything he wanted to hear. "You had a rough day yesterday. Maybe I pushed you too hard. I thought a bit of a break today was in order."

       He scoffed and shook his head. "Yesterday isn't on you. Why the hell am I telling you that? You should know that. That's on me."

       "And you just wanna play right through it, right?

       "Well a break every time I have a bad day sure as hell ain't gonna get me out of here is it?"

       She took her time responding again, and he felt his frustration mounting, until she spoke. All his anger trickled away as her words washed over him. "I know you don't want to hear it right now, and I'm not saying they'll be there forever, but you do have limitations. I know, they're new, you're not used to them. They suck. But you have to recognize them and work within them, rather than pushing through them sometimes, ok? I do know what I'm doing. You have that kind of a rough day? You take it easy the next. Trust me, you're not doing yourself any favours in the long run if you don't."

       Dean didn't know how to reply to this. He dropped his head under the guise of wiping his sweating brow on his sleeve as a weariness that had nothing to do with physical exertion settled on him. He stared at the floor, not wanting to meet her eye, swallowing hard around the tightness that seemed to have constricted his throat.

       She spoke again after a moment, "I know you want to get out of here. We'll go easy just for today, I promise. Ready to go again? You got this."

       He nodded, barely, and followed her few and far between instructions without comment for the remaining hour he was trapped there, then met Mateo's uncharacteristic silence with his own on their way back to his room.

       He climbed in to bed, settled against the raised back, and tried to find something to occupy his seemingly limitless, useless time here. Nothing presented itself. Nothing that seemed less than completely pointless at least. He eyed the small stack of books Sam had recently brought him with renewed disinterest, and glanced at the TV, high on the opposite wall, apathetically; you could only watch so many soaps in a lifetime. His new roommate, who had arrived just after breakfast, was having a quiet, quite boring, conversation behind his curtain with someone on the phone. His search for something to do was briefly interrupted by the arrival of lunch, and he picked his way through as much of it as he could, even less hungry than before. He was exhausted and his head was still aching and Sam hadn't returned, so he closed his eyes; he could definitely sleep. That's about all he was good for now: pathetic afternoon naps. Sleep didn't come though. A searing something in his gut wouldn't let it.

       A while later the noise of someone trying to slip in to the room without making a sound caught his ear, and he opened his eyes.

       Sam, looking just as tired and dishevelled as when he had left that morning, and Dean strained his memory to try and figure out if his brother had even changed his clothes, gave an apologetic look and said, "Sorry, didn't wanna wake you up."

       "Wasn't asleep."

       "How was physio?"

       He tried to swallow his sigh, "Pretty much pointless."

       "Good. Look, do you want a change of scenery for a bit?" Sam replied, obviously distracted. "I just noticed they've got like a little park area right outside here. It's pretty warm if you wanna go out."

       "And do what?"

       "I dunno, go for a walk, get some fresh air? Bring a book out and read? I got a couple of new movies downloaded," he said, grasping the strap of his laptop bag across his chest tight.

       Dean considered for a second how much he genuinely did not want to do any of that; even his desire to do something other than just sit here didn't outweigh it. He only capitulated with a shrug and an unenthusiastic "Sure," because of the look in Sam's eyes, which was a bit haggard, and the thought that he probably should want to. Who the hell wouldn't want a change of scene after three weeks of lying in the same spot? He realized, as he clambered back out of bed to find boots and a warmer shirt, his brother might be sick of staring at these same walls too.

       He couldn't just leave though, of course; nothing was that easy anymore. They were stopped pretty much at the threshold of his door by a nurse, Sarracino this afternoon, asking where they were going. Sam explained and she made a quick phone call, eyeing them beadily as if they might make a run for it, then ushered them back in to his room to equip him with some sort of off-roading pouch for his PCA. Everything tucked neatly away, and him annoyed that he had to carry the thing with him, they started out again, but didn't get very far. Both he and Sam had to sign a release form at the nurse's station; without reading it, he scribbled a mark that would barely qualify as an 'X', and even Sam, who usually took forms very seriously, hardly gave it a cursory skim.

       Finally, Sam led him up the hall to the right. He hadn't ventured further this way than the shower room, but it didn't matter; he hadn't been missing anything. Everything repeated, white walls, bright lights, white-curtained windows to calamity. His brother eventually took a right and led him down a narrower corridor, darker than the rest of the place, and a heavy metal door, that looked like it was probably alarmed in off-hours, opened in to a garden with high, stucco walls.

       It _was_ warm. Christ, November in New Mexico. And, Jesus, bright. He hadn't been in the full glare of the sun in weeks, and he squinted as he stepped out on to a paved concrete path, bordered by a pebbly groundcover, as his headache upped its thrumming. The path curved away from them and out of sight to the left and right. Sam took the right, which led down a small incline that was bordered on both sides by native cacti, scrubby shrubs, low creeping plants, and several tall fir trees. They rounded a bend, and a flat area with picnic tables opened up before them. His brother stepped off the path, and, crunching on gravel, made his way to the nearest one and sat down.

       Dean followed and sat down opposite Sam as his brother hauled his laptop out and set it on the uneven surface of the table. Neither of them had remembered to bring a book, so it looked like a movie was the order of the trip. As his brother fired the computer up, Dean squinted around at this new space some more, trying to get his bearings, feeling slightly out of place, and still completely out of sorts.

       The path they had walked down curved around and away, back up the other side of the little hill, and disappeared amongst more curated nature. He heard a kid laughing from somewhere beyond the leaves and spines, and the upshifting of engines on some unseen road behind the walls. He turned his head and looked back at the building he had finally, for the moment, escaped from, and tried to orient himself to where his own room was, but couldn't locate it. The low building was nothing but rows of narrow, recessed windows, and they all looked the same. Hell, the windows in his room might not even overlook the place; he had never thought to check.

       The open area they had settled in was awash in a late afternoon sun that seemed to have bleached most of the colour from the place; everything was a shade of beige. Even the greens of the plants looked dull, but it was nearing winter. A slightly narrower path, lined by more shrubs and a fair number of benches, circled the area, skirting the high walls and then the building in a meandering arc. He could just make out what looked like administration offices through a few of the nearer windows; no beds or prisoners there, just desks and conference tables. A small fountain burbled in a far corner, and several towering trellises with creeping vines leaned against the outer walls.

       A slight wind ambled through the courtyard, not cold, but not warm either, and a brittle rustling whispered through leaves and branches; add that to the list of things he had forgotten he missed. He turned his face towards the sun and breathed deep. It was fucking amazing, but still fucking weird, to be outside. Sunshine and fresh air was all he'd ever wanted, now that he had it again. Dean felt a sudden thrill of energy, his headache fading, and felt more awake than he had in, Christ, he couldn't even remember. He looked around with renewed interest, now that he could actually focus, taking in more details, relishing the simple fact that he was looking at something other than the inside of his room. He scanned the outer walls again and his new-found enthusiasm drained away in a trice, and it took him a moment to realize why.

       This didn't technically count as the real world. It might look like a regular park, might be filled with regular people going about their day, maybe taking their lunch break, maybe chivvying their grandkids to an unseen playground, but it wasn't. There was no exit; no gate or break in the wall to be had. He was still stuck in here, trapped behind towering walls that shielded him from the outside world, and it from him. Nothing was real here, nothing was right, and as if to punctuate this thought, a woman pushing a wheelchair that contained a pale, slip of a man wrapped in blankets, came down the path they had just traversed. He tried not to stare as they went past. She parked the chair next to one of the benches in the sun along the outside wall, and sat down. He cast his eyes downwards to the pebbles at this feet, wondering if they saw him and Sam as he saw them: pitiable counterparts in their respective fucked up situations.

       Dean pulled himself from his reverie and looked back up when he realized Sam was speaking, and heard his brother prattle off a list of movies he had. He nodded at the third, not knowing what he agreed to, and feigned interest as Sam angled the laptop so it was out of the sun and could be seen by both of them. Dean didn't pay much attention to the movie, which was a comedy of some sort, pratfalls and sight-gags abounded, but he did see when the woman on the bench got up and left, pushing her frail charge with her, and, not long after, he noticed movement coming down the path on other side of the hill the second it appeared.

       A small boy, maybe three or four years old, flying a toy rocket ship up and down in his hand in front of him, wandered along the path. He must have heard the sounds of their movie, because he was drawn over like a magnet, and, forgetting his toy for the moment, stared from each of their faces to the back of the laptop, several times.

       "Can I watch?" the kid asked in a stage-whisper.

       "Uh, sure," Dean responded, after an uncertain look at his brother. Sam looked up briefly but returned his attention to the screen, face blank. "Where are your parents?" he asked.

       "Over dere," the kid replied happily, vaguely indicating the direction he had come from, as he deposited his rocket ship on the table and scrambled up on to the bench, to walk along it.

       "Do they know where you are?"

       The kid stood eye to eye with Dean on the bench and nodded confidently, with his whole head, "Yah, they say I could go play."

       Still unsure about the situation, Dean's protestations died in his throat. The kid settled himself on to his lap, and, after shifting around a bit to get comfortable, turned his head to watch the movie. He swung his little feet slightly as he watched, tiny kicks falling across Dean's leg every now and then, and whenever something funny happened, the kid looked up at him and giggled, then hid his face in Dean's good arm.  
After a few minutes, the kid's attention seemed to wane, and Dean spotted him playing with his fingers, then staring around. His little head turned to the right and the kid must have seen something, Dean wasn't quite sure how, he hadn't noticed before.

       He sat up straight and said, "You only have one hand."

       Dean nodded down at him, "Uh, yup."

       "Where dit go?"

       Stymied for a moment, mouth half-open, he didn't know how to answer without giving this kid permanent nightmares. He finally settled on, "I had an accident."

       "Oh." The kid went back to staring at his own, ten, fingers, seemingly with renewed interest, then added, "My Pop-Pop has one foot. He said it 'cause of sugar."

       Dean didn't know how to respond to this, but was saved by a sing-song voice calling from over the hill. "Avi, we're going, come back now."

       Avi sprung up at his name, climbed down from the bench, and tore off, "Ok Mama!"

       A silhouette of a woman, hand shielding her eyes, appeared at the top of the hill, and as Avi retreated, Dean saw he had forgotten his rocket ship. He grabbed it, stood, and took a few paces forwards, meaning to run after the kid, but his head renewed its pounding at this slight exertion; he was in no shape to chase down a child, or anything for that matter, so he held it up so maybe the mother might see. When Avi reached her, she turned her son back towards him, pointed and whispered a word, and the kid came running back. Avi grabbed the toy out of his hand with a look of intense concentration on his face and turned heel again, without a word.

       "Say 'thank you' Avi," Dean heard his mother call, and Avi obliged as he retreated.

       "Thank you!"

       Dean watched the pair reunite and disappear over the hill, then turned back to retake his place at the picnic table, shaking his head.

       "Cute kid. But fucking weird right?"

       Sam finally gave an indication that he was paying a slight bit of attention to anything other than the movie, too little too late now that random children who needed entertainment had gone, and said, "I don't know, just seemed like a normal kid, didn't he?"

       "Just hanging out with complete strangers, on their laps?"

       Sam shrugged.

       "Must be just me then. This whole damn day's been off," Dean mumbled, running his hand hard across his forehead to try and relieve some of the pressure that had, once again, built there.

       His brother gave him a more tired than quizzical look, so he felt the need to go on. He didn't want to get in to the embarrassing specifics, like how shitty he felt from the start, or how much he had sucked in physio, so he stuck to the banal and unincriminating. "You know Jill? The Breakfast Nazi? Didn't even yell at me for not licking my plate clean. Mateo? No stories about his cousin's uncle's grandkid's uh, art installation. And Silvey? _That_ was strange. She was _nice_."

       Sam raised his eyebrows, "Nice? Wow, the way you go on about her, didn't think that was possible."

       "Well not your traditional 'nice' I guess. She wasn't an asshole is more accurate." Mind's eye replaying the more niggling parts of the day, he got caught up in the unease he had felt, still felt, and didn't wait for his brother to reply. "You even. Never did get a straight answer. Why the hell were you still here this morning? You haven't stayed over in weeks."

       Sam looked away then took a deep breath and asked quietly, "Do you remember anything about what happened yesterday?"

       "Uh, yeah," Dean replied, edge in his voice, annoyed; he remembered it all. "It was shit. It was not fun. So I blacked out, don't know why that means everyone's gotta walk on eggshells around me today," he said, mad at himself that he hadn't put two and two together before just now. No wonder everyone was being weird, they all must've thought he was weak, about to keel over at any moment, and needed to be coddled and watched.

       Sam didn't reply immediately, and Dean thought it was to give him a chance to calm down, until his brother said, "It wasn't just that. There was a problem last night."

       Confused, he felt his anger fade as his stomach dropped. He wasn't sure he really wanted to know, based on the look on his brother's face, but he pressed on, feigning impatience to keep up appearances, "What the hell kind of problem?

       Sam looked away and blinked for just a moment too long as he replied, "Uh... well, it was... bad."

       "What is this, Twenty fucking Questions? How bad?

       Sam seemed to hold his breath, then sighed and rushed to get the words out. "Like I was in a two hour meeting with hospital administration and a lawyer today bad."

       It was his turn to take an annoyingly long time to answer, and Sam didn't seem inclined to carry on explaining. He couldn't wrap his mind around what his brother had said. Various 'bad' scenarios played themselves out in his head, and the mental math of trying to add them up to get an outcome that landed Sam in meetings with lawyers was making his headache even more intense. An answer clunked in to place and resigned, he replied, "Shit. What'd I do, hit someone?"

       His brother turned back to look at him, eyes wide, "No. No, it wasn't you. They fucked up."

       This possibility hadn't really factored in to his calculations and all he could give in reply was a shrug and a tired shake of his head. Sam turned away again, digging in his laptop bag at his feet, then sat back up with a ream of paper in hand.

       "They fucked up your PCA when they brought you back yesterday." Sam flipped through a few of the pages and read, "Uh, investigation in to a breach of standards of professional care, breach of duty causing pain and suffering of the patient, uh, all relevant staff required to undergo retraining in the proper execution of the procedure, issuance of a formal apology... I think it's basically legalese for 'we fucked up, it won't happen again, please don't sue us'." His brother laid the metric tonne of paperwork down on the table and shrugged. "I signed it, they said all future medical bills are on them. They need you to sign too," Sam said. "Unless you wanna sue them," his brother added as an afterthought.

       His brother's question jolted him out of his disbelief at what he was hearing, and he gave a small snort, "No, I'm good, I don't even remember what the hell they're saying they did." He strained his memory to see if anything would surface, but nothing did, and his snort turned in to a short chuckle when he realized what this lack of recollection must mean: they must have had to hit him with the good stuff, hard. "Shit, must've been real bad if they're offering to pay. I guess the actual Mr. Fraser's insurance will be happy to be rid of me."

       His brother had some reply to this, but he tuned out as he felt the forced smile leave his face, not wanting to imagine what must have gone down for the hospital to make the offer, but not able to stop himself. Without his PCA, what the hell had he done? What had Sam had to see? Out of nowhere, he heard a word in his head, in Silvey's voice; _limitations_. When she had spoken it earlier, the word had been a twisting cut to his already wounded hopes of getting back to normal, to be sure, but it implied something that could be overcome. Now it just seemed ominous. His eyes fell on the too-tall stucco walls again, and they seemed to close in on him and fade away at the same time. What did it matter if it wasn't real in here, if out there, it wasn't going to be any different?

       He remembered his brother had been talking, and might have stopped by now, might be expecting an answer out of him to something or other, so he forced himself back to reality and hitched a fake look of interest on to his face.

       Sam was still going, "...any claims they've already submitted, they'll handle that."

       He didn't know what else to do, so he joked, tired from the effort of faking it before he even began. "So, should I start asking for extra dessert now? See if they can hook me up with some decent pie? Or should I just go straight to 'extra narcotics please'?"

       Sam gave a quiet laugh, a loud one in the movie still playing beside them almost drowned it out, and said, "Yeah, maybe getting them to make sure you've got a regular amount of narcotics would be a good start."

       There was nothing funny about the situation, his head was starting to pound even harder, but he persisted in making light, not wanting to think about what he was like without a regular amount of meds. "So, should I try and milk this, see if it can get me out of physio tomorrow?"

       Sam gave a half-smile, "Knowing Silvey? I don't think she'll fall for it. Sorry man."

       "But, could I pay her to go away now?" he asked, narrowing his eyes, keeping up the charade.

       "Ha, try it, see if it works."

       He snorted and smiled a fake smirk and shook his head. "Yeah, I don't think it's gonna."

       "No, probably not."

       "Even if I did pay her, she'd probably still show up anyway," he said as he leaned forwards and put his hand to his mouth, elbows on the table, his right protesting loudly at the pressure he had placed on it, and pretended to turn his attention back to the movie; Sam thankfully followed his lead. He caught himself shaking his head minutely at the screen, as if to tell himself no, trying to ignore the question burning with bitter bile in the back of his throat. He closed his eyes and pressed down harder on his elbow, and protests there turned in to riots, but it wasn't enough; the question remained.

       He spoke from behind his hand, monotone, still staring at the screen. "So what was it, five minutes?"

       "Hm?"

       "Just want to know what I'm working with here. Five, ten minutes — half an hour maybe? —without painkillers and I'm a complete fucking mess?"

       "I don't know, I wasn't really timing it," Sam replied in an unsure tone.

       His brother didn't contradict his last words, confirming his worst fears. He chuckled, nodding, "Thought so. Great."

       Sam reached out and paused the movie, "Look, it's ok man, it's not gonna happen again. Yesterday was like a, a, perfect storm of shitty circumst —"

       He tried to sit through Sam platitudes, shaking his head, but he cut in, "It's not ok." He felt his voice rising, "None of this is fucking ok. Fuck, what I can remember of yesterday? That's bad enough. And how do we know that's really 'bad' huh? How do we fucking know that's not just normal now? With all the pills they're throwing at me, constantly hooked up to this damn thing," he gestured wildly at the PCA bag at his side, "how can they even tell? And somehow last night we go from 'really bad' to 'even fucking worse'? Five fucking minutes," his voice caught in his throat, and he swallowed hard. He held his breath for a moment, then continued, back to monotone, "and there's enough 'pain and suffering' for them to have to pay me off? Yeah I'm not liking my odds here."

       There was silence for a moment then Sam tried, "Dean — "

       "No, it's fine. Gotta know my limits right? Put the movie back on. Or," his eyes fell on the documents on the table, "actually, you got a pen?"

       "What?"

       "Better sign this shit while I'm still coherent, right?" he said flatly, as he pulled the papers towards him.

       "Oh come on man, it's — "

       "Just get a damn pen Sam."

       His brother gave him an exasperated look then disappeared below the table to dig in his bag again, as he clumsily flipped to the last page in the stack of papers. Sam's fake signature was already neatly inked alongside three others, a single blank line left awaiting his own. Sam reappeared and threw a pen on to the table, and he picked it up and tried to sign, but even tethered to a thousand other pages, this last one was still able to shift under his hand; he hadn't been practicing at all, and he didn't think an 'X' would suffice this time. He got a slow couple of letters in, then his brother's hand appeared at the top of the page and held it steady. He finished signing, not caring that it looked like a kindergartener had scrawled it, and dropped the pen.

       He resumed his former posture, elbows on the table, hand over his mouth, staring blankly at the still-paused movie on the screen, and wished his head would stop its drumming and his guts would stop their churning. In his periphery, Sam gathered up the paperwork from the table and stowed everything away. His brother sat back up and Dean heard him take a slow, deep, breath. He prepared himself for an incoming monologue, but it never sounded. Sam reached out and the laptop screen came back to life. They watched in silence for he didn't know how long, and the next thing he knew, the credits were rolling; then Sam was standing, waiting for him, computer already packed away, sounding irritated as he practically shouted his name to get his attention; then they were at the door to his room. Then Sam was gone. He was sure they had spoken somewhere in there, said their usual, 'nothing is wrong, everything about this is perfectly a-ok, see ya tomorrow' goodbyes, but he didn't really recall. He ate, not much, of his dinner alone, flipped through the TV channels and stared at a show for a bit, played at reading a book for a while, trying not to drop it with each fumbling turn of the page, then climbed under the covers and turned off the light above his bed, hours before he usually would have.

       He was awoken by his own sharp inhale at 1:03 in the morning. He knew, because once he realized what was happening, he made a point to look at the clock. He wanted to time it; he needed specifics. He must have rolled on to his right side in his sleep, and he stayed that way, clutching his arm across his chest, cradling the bad with the good. He closed his eyes and waited, trying not to concentrate on it and trying not to make a sound. When silence became too difficult, he tried to keep as quiet as possible; his new roommate was snoring softly behind his curtain, and he didn't want to wake him. He held his breath for as long as he could, and managed to keep his voice just above a whisper when he exhaled; he repeated this, over and over, as it grew worse and worse, for what felt like forever.

       There was suddenly a hand on his shoulder and he started, a low cry escaping him in his surprise. Fred was too close to him. The nurse reached over him, he felt something drag across his pillow, and tried to hand him the button.

       He shook his head and managed a mangled, "No, I don't want it."

       "Ok, that's fine, you don't have to. Can you do a couple of things for me though?" the nurse asked quietly.

        _I can't do anything anymore_. He wrenched his eyes closed in reply.

       "I need you to try and take a couple of deep breaths ok? In through your nose, out through your mouth."

       As soon as Fred said the words, as if commanded, he complied, eyes wide in concentration, sucking in shaking breaths and blowing them out in stutters.

       "Just like that, that's perfect. Now, can you let me see your hand?"

       The second he had to think about something other than breathing, he forgot to do it, and jammed his eyes shut again. He sensed the nurse drawing nearer and, though it didn't seem possible, tensed up even more as he pleaded pathetically, "No please don't touch me."

       "I just need to check your IV, it'll just take a second."

       I took him a moment to work up the nerve and the wherewithal to move. He pulled his hand off his arm and Fred took it, "Keep breathing," the nurse reminded him as he inspected it, but Dean couldn't get back to a half-normal rhythem until Fred released his hand and it was back around his arm.

       "Do you want to try something else? I can get you some Tylenol. It might help."

       He shook he head again, and forgot to breathe again. He felt a hand on his shoulder, rubbing his arm, and he didn't even jump. He listened to Fred's voice, speaking softly beside him about he didn't know what, until he found himself sobbing silently, but he still didn't reach out. His phantom gave a sudden and excruciating twitch, he felt everything from his elbow down jerk up violently, as if electrified, and he couldn't stop himself from crying out.

       Dean managed to pry his eyes open, it was there just in front of him, five inches away on the bed, and after a long moment of concentration he reached out and grabbed it, and brought his closed hand back to hide his face as he pressed. A beep from the machine, and he waited, and it wasn't long before he felt the first subtle, solacing wave pass through him. Every breath he took now was a bit longer than the last, and each wave a bit stronger, and he couldn't stop himself from sighing in relief at the end of each of them. Sighs suddenly turned in to quiet sobs, not from physical pain this time, but from mental exhaustion, but he swallowed those in short order. He dropped the button out of his hand and covered his eyes, ready to fade in to sleep.

       Fred had stepped away at some point, but Dean still heard him in the room, somewhere near the end of his bed scribbling away, probably making notes on his chart about how fucking idiotic the patient was.

       His eyes fluttered open; he had almost forgotten the whole point of this stupid exercise. He needed to know, but was too tired to raise his head and look around. "What time is it?" he asked flatly.

       "Uh, 1:21."

       He exhaled a soft, sad laugh and smiled slightly, nodding his head as he felt his eyes fill. _Jesus fucking Christ_. He shut them again, and began to shake his head under his hand, and didn't bother to try and stop his tears from falling, save for pressing his hand harder over his eyes. He knew he'd be out soon anyway; button magic would see to that. He didn't know why he was upset anyway; he had way more time than he'd thought. He drifted off, strange thoughts like _you should be happy_ lulling him to sleep.

 

*        *        *        *        *

 

       Sam stepped stiffly in to the hall after bidding his brother goodbye and rubbed his neck; it had a awful crick in it from yet another night sleeping sitting up, or more likely, from jerking his head back to vertical a thousand times when gravity alerted him that he had fallen asleep. He supposed he should be grateful that he hadn't had to stay over for a good long while at least. He slung his laptop bag over his shoulder with a wince, and, thinking only of not thinking and sleeping horizontal, maybe with a pillow, for a few uninterrupted hours, he turned to leave. He got a few paces down the hall then heard his name, so he turned back. Dr. Roa and several faces he didn't recognize were approaching Dean's room and she beckoned him over.

       "We were just about to come meet with you and your brother, do you mind sticking around for a moment?" the doctor asked.

        _Oh sure_ , he thought, knowing what this must be about, _I just woke up, he just woke up, let's all go relive last night first thing_. The tone of his thought might have come through when he replied, "Actually, can we do this another time?" Normally he would have just acquiesced and followed them, but he was tired. And it was too early in the morning to ruin Dean's day.

       "We'd prefer to meet with you together if possible," one of the unfamiliars said, extending a hand. "Dr. Mott, Risk Management. But we can set up a time to fill you in this afternoon or tomorrow if now's not good for you."

       "You're still going to talk to him now though?" he asked, muted alarm bells going off in the back of his head.

       "Well, we have it scheduled for — "

       "Look no, can you just hold off for now?" Sam threw a quick look towards his brother's room, then stepped away from the door, up the hall towards the nurse's station. "I don't think he remembers anything anyway."

       The little group followed, "We prefer to be open and honest in these situations, and like to address the issue as soon as possible when errors are made — "

       "Can you just let me then? We can meet now and I'll tell him?"

       A skeptical look passed between two of the unknown faces, "We find it preferable to present the information to the patient, in case there are any questions that ar — "

       Sam cut in again, voice rising slightly in his desperation, "I don't think he'll like being confronted with this by a bunch of people he doesn't know is all. I don't know how he's gonna take it. Do you enjoy getting yelled at first thing in the morning?"

       "It's not an uncommon reaction, we're prepa — "

       "Well good, do you want me to start right now then? You're not going in there without me and I'm not going back right now." He blinked back exhausted tears that had suddenly sprung up in his eyes, fighting an urge to just take off, as Dr. Roa stepped forwards and put a hand on his arm.

       "That's fine Sam. It's not a problem, why don't we just head up to the conference room and we'll talk?" She indicated up the hall and after a moment he nodded and fell in to step with her and the party of unknowns. They flanked him, all smiling reassuringly at him, and he felt like a prisoner being marched deeper in to a dungeon from which there was no escape.

       He just wanted a bed. Here he was in a building filled with them and there was no rest to be found. He just wanted to sleep and forget everything that happened the night before, not go have some big, drawn-out, discussion about it. They passed the bathroom and he quickly side-stepped his captors and pushed the door open, "I just need to..."

       "Ok it's just up the hall, administration offices, through the double doors then four doors up on the right, just come in and they'll..."

       Sam didn't hear any more. He let the door shut in their faces and walked towards the bank of sinks. He wrenched the strap of his bag over his head and laid it on to the counter, then gripped the basin in front of him for dear life, as if the world was tilting and deliberately trying to shake him off. After a long moment staring at the floor between his feet, he turned and leaned against the counter, rubbing his neck again, twisting his head this way and that to try and work out the kinks. He closed his eyes when he felt a sting in their corners and dropped his head, tightening his hand on the back of his neck, squeezing hard. The tiled room was too quiet; there wasn't even the drip drip of a leaky faucet to break the silence. The room seemed to echo and amplify what he was hearing in his head, the god-awful sounds his brother had made the night before, that he was sure were going to dog him in his nightmares forever, back at him.

       His eyes sprung open and he inhaled sharply, then turned and bashed blindly at the faucets until water started running, filling the silent cacophony and the sink. He bent over and splashed his face, trying to wake up or calm down, and couldn't tell if the water was too hot or too cold. He might have gotten a bit carried away; the collar and cuffs of his shirt were getting soaked, and the area around the sink was drenched, but he didn't want to shut off the stream and return to the screaming silence.

       He twisted the taps back to off, wiped the water out of his eyes, hard, clearing his throat loudly so it, and nothing else, would echo around the room, and made a loud job of retrieving paper towel from the dispenser to dry himself, and the counter, off. He shouldered his bag, binned his trash, and the squeaking of the swinging metal lid got him out the door without hearing anything else.

       Sam was stymied in the hall for a moment, then remembered where to go. The only things that differentiated his destination from the regular hospital rooms were the door and windows; the door was closed and looked heavy, and on closer inspection had a small plaque reading "Administration" affixed to it, and the windows were a bit bigger and covered by vertical blinds. He pushed open the door and was met by an unpleasant shade of green covering the walls and floors, and after looking around uncertainly, a man at a desk indicated a door to his left, in the far corner of the room.

       The mossy shade stopped at the door as if the floor had been salted; the inside of the conference room was relegated back to blinding white, helped along in its efforts by tall uncurtained windows that overlooked some sort of park area. The space inside was taken up almost entirely by a long table that looked to seat about twenty. When Sam sat down, they became a party of five, the three faces he didn't know sitting opposite him, backs to the windows, with Dr. Roa heading the table.

       She gave him a quick questioning look, and he nodded so she did the introductions, inclining her head at each person in turn.

       "Dr. Dan Mott you met, and Dr. Sara Trevino, they're part of the hospital's Risk Management team, and Leonie Morin is hospital counsel. This is Sam Fraser, the patient's brother."

       They each smiled their reassuring smiles at him as their names were called, but he didn't return any of them. Not out of anger, though he thought maybe it was expected of him, especially after his earlier outburst, just out of complete exhaustion. He had been so close to getting out of there; when he had sunk down in to the chair at the table, his eyelids seemed to have doubled in weight.

       The lawyer began passing out heavy reports, one for each of them, and Sam reached across the table and took his, then leaned back in his chair and opened it in his lap. His anger flared looking at the size of the stack of papers; how many pages did it take to say they fucked up, and caused his brother immeasurable pain? And they no doubt wanted to go through the whole damn thing with a fine tooth, right now.

       One of the Risk Management talking heads began, "First off, I'm sorry we're having to meet under these circumstances, and I'd like to apologize to you, and your brother, on behalf of the hospital."

       He nodded up at her, trying his best to look appreciative of the gesture, but didn't say anything.

       She continued, "Secondly, I don't want you misunderstand our name. Healthcare Risk Management always includes assessing risks to our patients, and we take this aspect very seriously. We're not here to cover for the hospital, or place blame on a practitioner and that's the end of it. We investigate any incidents, figure out the root causes of why they happened and put procedures in place so they aren't repeated."

       Sam was skeptical, "So you've done all that since last night?" He tapped the pages in his lap, "This seems pretty thorough. It's barely been 12 hours."

       "Yes, we began our investigation yesterday evening. In this case, the cause was identifiable fairly easil — "

       "If it was that easy to identify, why the hell did it even happen in the first place?" he asked, sitting up a bit, an edge slipping in to his voice. He slouched back almost immediately and closed his eyes, shaking his head; if he could only sleep.

       Dr. Roa spoke, "Please Sam, let them explain. They'll go over everything for you so it's clear ok?"

       He exhaled slowly and ran a hand over his face, then nodded, and bent to retrieve a pen from his bag. He better take notes if he wanted to remember all of this, and explain it to Dean properly. He sat back up and nodded, and Dr. Trevino continued.

       "If you'll turn to page three..."

       He followed along, and didn't make any more interjections to their spiel, taking notes most of the time, only staring out the windows, behind this troupe of people he wished he had never laid eyes on, at nothing every now and then, and only falling asleep once.

       When the constant stream of words and turning of pages ceased, he looked up, dazed and tired, hoping they would let him escape soon. He sat up, hauled the paperwork out of his lap and laid it on the table between his elbows, squinting at his notes in the margins. Were they even legible?

       "Do you have any questions?"

       He looked down, head in hand, trying to keep his eyes open, and pretended to peruse the pages again before he shook his head.

       "And the mitigation plan and compensation outlined are satisfactory to you?"

       He nodded, still barely bothering to look up.

       "Ok, then. We'll get you to sign this copy, your brother will need to sign as well obviously..."

       A flurry of papers being passed and pen-scratching erupted around him until the 'official' copy reached him and he added his fake signature, almost forgetting and signing his real name. He shoved it and his annotated copy in to his bag, stood and made for the door without looking back.

       He heard a fading, "If you or your brother have any further questions..." but he didn't stop. Out through the seafoam forest, then back in to the featureless hallways, he kept up his pace until he once again heard his name called. He turned to see Dr. Roa jogging to catch up with him, and as she neared, he sunk in to one of a bank of chairs that lined the wall.

       She stared down at him for a second then took a seat next to him. "Are you ok?"

       Grasping the strap of his bag tight across his chest, he nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine." She didn't continue, but he could see her looking at him out of the corner of his eye. He swallowed hard. "Last night? That's not something I ever wanna see again."

       He thanked her internally for knowing what he meant, and not referring him back to the fucking encyclopedia he had in his bag again. "I spoke to my colleague who assisted, I understand it was quite severe."

       "Ha, yeah. Understatement."

       "I know you just got an official apology but I'd like to add mine as well. I'm very sorry this happened Sam."

       He nodded his head at the opposite wall, not sure if he really wanted to get in to this right now. He wanted to get in to bed, or, at the least, get some coffee in to him. "Why the hell is it still like this for him? This bad I mean. I know it can take months but..." he trailed off, leaving the 'years' he had read about in some cases, unspoken.

       "It's different for everyone. There is no cookie-cutter, 'this recovery milestone by this date' to go by when it comes to PLP. I know that's not what you want to hear."

       "Ha, nope. Now I gotta go figure out how to tell him about this."

       "That _is_ one of the reasons why we like to be the one's who bring these types of things to patients," she said gently. "The burden shouldn't be on you."

       He laughed again, "Yeah, I don't think he would've sat through all that. Not willingly at least. I'd have to chase him down and tell him anyway. Though at least here I know he can't get _too_ far."

       "Would you like me to be there? I can make myself available. Draw some of the fire."

       He was grateful for the offer, and finally turned to look her in the eye. "No." He took a deep breath and gave her a small, actual, smile. He was surprised his face remembered how to arrange itself to make one. "No, but thank you. I'm gonna go get a coffee in to me and it'll be fine."

       "Ok. You know where I am."

       Sam nodded in reply as they stood and parted ways, but she spoke again before either of them got very far. "Oh, Sam," she said as she walked back, "I don't know if you'd be interested, but I know of a support group that meets at the church just up the road here. For family members of trauma patients."

       Someone seemed to have sucked all the air out of the hallway. "Oh," he replied blankly.

       "There's a flyer on the bulletin board in the foyer. They meet tonight I believe."

       After a beat he lied, "Ok, thanks, I'll take a look," and turned heel towards the cafeteria, though he didn't know why anymore. He was suddenly wide awake, his heart beating hard against his chest like he'd just downed a whole pot of coffee.

       As he neared Dean's room, he glanced at the clock behind the nurse's station, but it was too early for his brother to be back from physio; he took a quick look inside on his way past, just to make sure the bed was still unoccupied, to make sure there hadn't been any additional problems, then continued on.

       The cafeteria was a bit busy and quite loud when he arrived, an early lunch rush starting to accumulate, and he stood in line for a few minutes before he had coffee in hand. He wandered around, trying to find a table away from people, and eventually got a spot against the back wall.

       Once seated again, his exhaustion returned full force. He put an elbow on the table and leaned his head on his hand, trying, and failing, to keep his eyes open. He turned his coffee cup absent-mindedly on the table with his other hand for a while, then realized he had yet to take a drink. He should get down to it: plan of attack time. That's what it felt like at least, that he was going to be ambushing his brother with all this.

       Dean appeared none the wiser when Sam woke up earlier, and he now was the one who had to pile on, on top of what had already happened yesterday, and let Dean know what went down last night. He should have just left and let Roa and friends do it. No, he should have stayed while they did. But he couldn't go back when they requested it, he knew that now. In his head, he'd been using being tired as an excuse, but that was far from the truth. In reality, he had just escaped that room and he couldn't face going back in so soon, not when the memories of the night before we so fresh, and so incongruent with how Dean appeared that morning. Screaming one second, fine the next. Writhing one second, up and walking the next. All he saw when he looked at his brother was a replay of the night before, agony laid bare, pain personified, and he couldn't look at him like that anymore, even if he was actually just brushing his teeth.

       He opened his eyes and finally popped back the lid on his coffee cup and took a long draught, then hauled the forest's worth of papers back out of his bag and plunked it on table with an audible thud. He sipped coffee and flipped pages for a bit, re-reading his notes and trying to make new mental ones, but he was finding it hard to concentrate. The noise level had increased two-fold since he first arrived, and after another couple of minutes he gave up and packed up. He downed the remnants of his coffee, grabbed another one for good measure on his way out, and made for the car after checking the time; still too early for Dean to be done.

       The relative silence of the parking lot was a welcome reprieve, the traffic zipping past on the nearby road a balming white noise as he stared around and tried to remember where he had parked yesterday; coming here so often, the days all seemed to run together and he couldn't think where it was. Around the side of the building, or had that been the day before? He picked a direction and started walking aimlessly, then spotted it at the far end of a row, just before asphalt gave way to dusty earth.

       It was surprisingly warm out. The noon-day sun must've burned a bit of the cloudiness from his brain, or his coffee must've been kicking in, because by the time he sat down in the passenger seat, he felt like a half-normal person. It was stifling inside the car so he left the door open for a bit to let some of the heat out, and sat sideways in the seat, feet out on the ground, as he felt the warmth escape out around him.

       He put his already half-drunk coffee on the floor next to him and resumed his reading, trying to fully understand the words on the page. So much medical terminology, and everything was described so clinically, but he still couldn't detach them from what they really meant: Dean, hurting, desperate for help, but unable to get it when he needed it. His mind's eye brought him back to his brother's bedside for a moment, and he felt slightly sick.

       The sun disappeared behind a cloud for a moment and he shivered slightly and shifted in his seat, drawing his legs inside and shutting the door. He flipped through the remaining pages to see how many more he had written notes on, checked the time, and figured it would soon be time to go back in. His thoughts turned, grudgingly, to how he was going to do this. _So, remember how bad you thought your day was yesterday? Well, have I got news for you_.

       The sun was blazing again, the car was starting to warm back up, and it reflected off the pages in front of him, bright as high beams. It was nice out, maybe he should try and get his brother out of there for a bit, see if he could come up with some reason, because God knew he still didn't really want to go sit in that room again.

       Plausible excuses to get Dean to come along were running through his mind, then he awoke with a start. _Shit_. He checked the time; he'd been out for almost forty-five minutes. Neck protesting again at this latest lapse in to vertical sleep, he gathered up the papers from his lap, shouldered the door open, and got out, kicking his forgotten coffee over in the process.

       "Shit," he said aloud this time. He dropped his bag and the papers on to the seat and scrambled for leftover napkins he knew were jammed in the back of the glove box, then dropped to his knees and tried to mop up as best he could, furious with himself. For forgetting it was there, for falling asleep, for not wanting to go back, for not already having done so, for not being able to get his head out of last night, for not just getting this fucking over with already. He felt a pricking in his eyes and almost laughed; _crying over spilt coffee, Jesus, get it together_. He gave up on his clean-up job, stuffed the soggy napkins in to his now empty cup, gathered the rest of his things and locked the door, and deposited the evidence in to a bin in the foyer when he reached it.

       Someone in scrubs walked past, and he had a sudden, desperate thought, now that he was on the brink of being back in that room. He asked her how to get to the garden he had seen from the conference room earlier, then thanked her for the directions, but he had only half-listened to them. He was distracted by a haphazard patchwork of different colours littering the wall behind her. He must've walked though here fifty times and he had never paid it any attention. When his guide continued on her way, he got a full view, and stepped a bit closer, reading snippets of what was written on the multitude of flyers that papered the wall. Volunteer opportunities, three nights a week; hospital fundraisers, dinner and silent auction; elder-care facilities, just like home; lost cat, last seen on Calle Dulce; and a million support groups, cancer, Alzheimer's, depression, brain injury, and on and on and on. The seemingly endless list of afflictions and calamities that could ever befall a person seemed thoroughly covered on a five by seven bulletin board. Amidst the tumult, he eventually spotted the one Dr. Roa must have been referring to, and blankly read about ten words of it before he turned away and headed inside.

       Trying to think about anything other than what the doctor had said and what he had just read or where he was about to be and what he was about to do, he tried to piece together the way to the garden from the fractured directions he remembered. There were two ways out, she had said, go straight here then left, or hang a left there then go right, but he wasn't sure where here or there was.

       As he reached Dean's door, he forgot he didn't know where to start; he heard his name, as a terrible cry, echo out of the room, once, twice, three times. He knew it was only in his head; he could see his brother sleeping silently not ten feet from him, but it still stopped him in his tracks. He stared hard at Dean, not really seeing him, and held his breath, the memories of the night before competing for precedence with the calm scene in front of him; he would never even make it though the door if all he was seeing was an instant replay. He needed to detach, be more clinical, like the five pounds of pulp and paper in his bag at his side, to relate but not relate. He pushed the hated sights and sounds to a far corner of his brain, somewhere in the back, until he couldn't see or hear them anymore. He could still feel them in the tension in his neck and shoulders and back, but, for the moment, they were still and silent. Sam took a breath and stepped inside, making ready to report what he knew, and preparing for the fallout. He wasn't the one who needed support. He was fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI this chapter is in the running for the world record for "longest chapter in which almost nothing happens", and is also being considered for the "the shit that did actually happen here probably could have been explained in like three paragraphs" award. Wish it luck.


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